


Homo homini

by Madoshi, Serinah



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, M/M, Psychological Trauma, Public Humiliation, Stockholm Syndrome, Translation from Russian, almost no sex, enslavement, interrogating under influence and with prejudice, mentions of domestic violence, mentions of torture and brainwashing, non-sexual rolepaly, safe to read - no cliffhangers now
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 02:47:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 41,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1101470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madoshi/pseuds/Madoshi, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serinah/pseuds/Serinah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where people are divided into masters and slaves, Sherlock Holmes is sentenced to slavery. For life. He is then purchased for personal use by his best friend John Watson. Now, they have to live with it. And solve crimes.</p><p>Including the one that landed Sherlock before the court of justice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Collar

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Человек человеку](https://archiveofourown.org/works/645509) by [Madoshi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madoshi/pseuds/Madoshi). 



> This was a feat to accomplish and wouldn't have been possible without Madoshi, and not only because she wrote the story, but also because she coached me through the translation and held my hand when necessary.  
> So basically I translated and madoshi steered me back on track every time I got lost.  
> Additional acknowledgements go to eliah.jan for the help with legal vocabulary, M. Vernet for looking over the final product, and last, but not least the artist who produced the incredible pictures for this story, but prefers to remain anonymous. Thank you! :D

  


_Slaves, obey your earthly masters in everything, not only while being watched and in order to please them, but wholeheartedly, fearing the Lord. Whatever your task, put yourselves into it, as done for the Lord and not for your masters, since you know that from the Lord you will receive the inheritance as your reward; you serve the Lord Christ. For the wrongdoer will be paid back for whatever wrong has been done, and there is no partiality.  
 **Colossians 3:22-25**_

_Masters, treat your slaves justly and fairly, for you know that you also have a Master in heaven.  
 **Colossians 4:1**_

_Those who most speak in favor of slavery would hold it the most in horror, and the poorest of men would likewise find it horrible.  
 **Charles de Montesquieu, "The spirit of laws", Book 15, ch. IX**_

  
**The Collar**

 

Sherlock has always noticed more details than other people. Even as a child. Sometimes Sherlock's thought process does probably resemble the thought process of so called normal people (in everything but the speed of course). Although this calculation - a fictional variable in any case - is taking into account the general narrative patterns displayed in books and film, which might not even correspond to the normal majority's thought process.

 

At times though, his perception expands into an additional, third dimension. The feeling is suffocating, as if a two-dimensional plain, full of steroids, is hopelessly trying to plunge up into unreachable heights, but lacking the required neurons it is utterly impotent to fulfil its desire. Right now, for instance, everything around Sherlock has turned void and hollow; a map of thin threads, an image as if from a bird's view, is laid out before him, absorbed through his skin: the room, framed with walls, floor and ceiling; the building's plan from above, the roof removed; the web of the streets outside. Multiple bodies bundled up into synthetic materials, linen, cotton, plastic and steel. Tiny, puny people.

 

“In the light of the circumstances surrounding the current case and according to the Individual Rights Convention of 1894, Act of Violent Conduct 1956, Act on Fraud 1945, and the case of Manchester City Council v Canes 1979, the defendant Sherlock Holmes is found guilty on all grounds and is sentenced...”

 

Well, it doesn't matter if he listens to what his sentence is – it has been obvious from the beginning. Was this what you meant, Jim, when you told me you'd burn my heart out?

 

It's impossible not to listen though; the words are an insistent low hum of heavy machinery, a screech of a false note of a violin high above the ear. The spectators are leaving, the room is filled with their compassionate drone. People had sympathised with him during the hearings – John had managed a fully-fledged campaign in The Strand Daily. Sherlock was brought newspapers. But when has anyone ever been saved by a media campaign?

 

Cameras click, flash, and the bluish smoke swirls towards the ceiling. Where's John by the way? Perhaps it's his last chance to see a familiar face for months. Yes, there he is. Elbowing himself through the crowd, his lips moving – probably apologizing mechanically on his way. Not a glance spared for Sherlock.

 

Exiting the room requires passing the steel cage containing personal slaves of some of the audience. There are only three (keeping a slave is not inexpensive, and thus uncommon) and they are not unpleasant or anything: the usual lot of groomed household servants. Even one slave-bodyguard with a typical subservient gaze. Nevertheless, when confronted with the cage, John's gaze stumbles. He leaves without a backward glance.

 

Sherlock had anticipated shouting and protests. Not this. Even forceful removal or arrest for aggressive behaviour hadn't seemed out of the question. It's what the good doctor had been afraid of, most likely. He left so as not to lose his self-control. Strange. John is well known for always keeping his composure, but Sherlock has always presumed that it doesn't extend to him, the only one in the world, and so on. Sherlock has been mistaken, obviously. There's always something... Pity. He was going to pass John a code for his instructions. He'll have to find another way.

 

Hopefully John won't try organizing the escape by himself. He simply lacks the ingenuity and resources. He will fail and fall into the same predicament Sherlock's in. That is unnecessary.

  


First he is led into an anteroom, tattooed a temporary mark on his cheek, and equipped with a simple collar and a yellow slave robe, after which he is escorted into another wing. It is the place where 'slaves of general category' are awaiting their distribution.

 

Sherlock's plenteous life experience hasn't prepared him for this kind of situation. He had never thought that this crowd would be worse than the recidivists with whom he'd been forced to share a cell or two in the past. Armed robbers and bandits did not end up in the 'general category'; they were sent straight to factories and mines. Therefore the set had to be compiled of former clerks (embezzlers and debtors), blue collars (domestic abusers), the homeless, most of whom would certainly be less vicious... 

 

He'd been wrong. Not enough data: no independent source for general information. Libraries and available periodicals are woefully incomplete.

 

And really, how much of humanity had he expected people stripped of their dignity to retain?

  


Three days pass. Visits by a psychologist (a free woman, naturally) are the worst by far. For an hour daily she comes in, accompanied by two guards, sits on the chair before the tentatively kneeling slaves and spins her speech around the humanitarian nature of society and advantages of dependency. The first time, twenty minutes into the lecture, she allowed them to relax from their kneeling poses and several slaves started beaming at her almost in adoration. Her first husband humiliated her (never hit though), she divorced him and is now in a homosexual relationship with a colleague. Sherlock could tell her a lot about free will and a freedom of movement. But he doesn't.

 

On the fourth day, after a disgusting prison lunch, he is ordered out of the cell and led under guard, most probably, to his stationary placement. Where is he being sent then, Sherlock wonders. Municipal slave... perhaps into cleaning services? That could prove beneficial, more opportunities. It would be amusing to fall pray to the shortage at the Yard... But no, even if Lestrade had applied for him, the application would hardly be approved, since all Sherlock's achievements are now regarded as fake. Perhaps somebody has bought him?

 

At the station his guard signs a journal on a cracked desk, where a same sex fornication has taken place at least three times. Then Sherlock is passed on to another guard, who (married, two children, a lover) jabs his fat finger into the base of Sherlock's neck, just under the collar. Yes, he should have lowered his head. Forgot. The detective has had a chance to imitate a slave before and knows very well how to conduct himself in that kind of situations. Shouldn't have got distracted. His thoughts seem to have scattered all over his traitorous mind just to hide from the reality of his situation.

 

One more dim corridor (Sherlock remembers the layout of the building perfectly well, but what's the use – he won't be escaping), one more anteroom, this time somewhat more civilised. It reveals an unfamiliar official in a brown woollen suit, plump and seemingly good-natured, – and John. He'd grown rather haggard in three days as if he were the one forced to eat prison gruel and stay up at nights to keep all his bits intact.

 

“Your property, Dr Watson,” the official says in a pleasant voice. “Are you sure you don't want to implant a tracking device under its skin? Former civil servants have a discount for this advanced procedure. As a soldier you fall into that category.”

 

Of course. John hadn't slept, because he was busy filling application forms. It's possible he even had to bribe someone: everything had been done very quickly.

 

“Thank you, no need,” John answers in the polite voice he uses in stressful situations. It doesn't get any more stressful than that. “As I understand it, the collar is compulsory either way?”

 

“Yes, but in the case of the implanted tracker the law allows you to forgo the stun feature, which makes the collar a lot lighter. It's handy with females, especially the young. And you can embed it where the scar will be unnoticeable.” The brown suit winks.

 

Yes, he owns a slave himself. A woman, probably elderly, probably a family possession. No young females for him - a jealous wife and not enough income. But he's itching for it. Undoubtedly he has his own ideas about the reasons John is purchasing Sherlock. It's quite normal nowadays, they say.

 

“Thank you. I've already bought the collar.”

 

Sherlock is watching John's hands closely so he sees very clearly how the package with the humiliating device is taken out of the sports bag on the doctor's hip. Leather and plastic. The lightest model, relatively expensive, but not a luxury item. Sensible and level-headed choice. Very much like John. A metal tag. “Property of John H. Watson” and a Baker Street phone number. Which means he ordered it yesterday at the latest and paid for an urgent commission. Where did he get the funds? If Mycroft had been... able, Sherlock would have suspected his involvement. Sherlock's own accounts are arrested. John has always worked miracles with his pension, but everything has a limit.

 

The official clucks his tongue approvingly. “A very good model. We have the same brand; ten years and no problems.”

 

Yes, he was right about the man. John, on the other hand, obviously has to brace himself at hearing the words. Apparently, other people can't read John's face as well as Sherlock can. His former friend and current owner looks as if he is being tortured.

 

The official nods at the guard, who then removes the temporary collar. Relief accompanied with a slight nausea. The next collar won't be temporary. Sherlock wishes that everything would be over soon. A childish, naïve emotion, but he can't get rid of it.

“Greet your master, slave,” the official orders and squints at the documents. “Oh my, what a name!” He turns to John, chuckling, “If you want it changed, you can do it free of charge, by the way.”

 

Sherlock, however, doesn't hear it. His perception is floating, crystallising into the familiar, unbearably lucid mode where he sees and observes everything: from the crack in the lamp shade to the calluses on the guard's hands; from a new wrinkle at the corner of John's mouth to a small speck of sauce near the official's thumb fingernail. He notices the room they are in, a cardboard box in a labyrinth of similar cardboard boxes as seen from above, sees tiny people-ants inside, and how one of those ants, a figurine representing so-called Sherlock Holmes, thirty-three of age, steps forward, lowers himself to his knees before another figurine, which represents a John Watson, thirty-nine years of age. It's only a matter of topology, just a change in position and coordinates, insignificant on the grand scale of things, the planet or even London. It has no meaning whatsoever.

 

Familiar hands buckle the heavy collar onto his neck, trying not to touch him more than necessary. They brush a lock out of the buckle, and the oppressive weight settles on his neck. That's it. The end.

  


With the collar on everything seems different. Strange. When Sherlock _played_ at being a slave, there was no such feeling: work was work. Now it appears as if all the stares are directed at him, all the smiles... He makes himself look on the ground before him, and not hear how his every step echoes back inside his skull. The floors have been scrubbed two hours ago, the cleaner used less solution than regulation – forgot or is he stealing?

 

Not many people in the municipal building today: it's Sunday. A two-meter long strip of linoleum is missing next to the wall: there had been benches before, now removed. Immaterial. John doesn't limp. Usually there is an echo of it in his gait, but not now. Stress?

 

A slave is supposed to look down, not meeting the gaze of their superiors, except when it interferes with the orders of their master, but John hasn't given any orders, unless he counts the curt 'come with me'.

 

John undoubtedly had wanted to save him. He doesn't have (can't have, it's extremely unlikely that he does) other motives. John hates slavery. To own his best friend is as humiliating for him as for Sherlock to walk after him. Every look he gets must feel like a sniper's red dot on his body – that's why his hands are steady.

 

For some reason, in the court house lobby John walks straight past the exit and towards the toilets. Since he doesn't say anything, for a moment Sherlock stops at the doors. He really doesn't need to go, but John holds the flap for him and points with his chin to the doors. Sherlock obeys. Before the stalls John thrusts a bag into his hands.

 

“Here... a couple of things,” he says in a strange voice. “I thought you'd want to change.”

 

Sherlock regards him closely. Fear. Tension. Uncertainty. Awkwardness. But the most important – fear. Almost terror, though well concealed. The only other time Sherlock had seen John like this was at the pool, in those short seconds they both thought that Sherlock would have to shoot the vest full of explosives.

 

Sherlock lets himself breathe and decides that he knows what John is afraid of.

 

“You're right, this shade of yellow really doesn't do my eyes any favours,” he replies glibly.

 

His reward is an almost inaudible relieved sigh and a barely there smile. John even seems to stagger a bit.

 

“Are you all right?”

 

“I... Yes. More or less. You?”

 

“In one piece.” Bruised ribs don't matter.

 

John looks round. He has just realised that people in stalls might be privy to their conversation. Theoretically, nothing would happen to him for going soft on his slave. Some sidelong glances, a fine or two for inappropriate behaviour in public. Practically though... Sherlock knows of cases where judges 'concerned with civil order' (terrified of abolitionists) reassigned slaves to other (better paying) owners because of a too democratic treatment. Or simply confiscated into municipal ownership.

 

“No one's here,” Sherlock waves away his worry. “But for a change, you're right. Let's wait with the conversation until Baker Street. We do live there still?”

 

“Yes, Mrs Hudson was very understanding.” John smiled slightly. “Go on then.”

  


Sherlock's coat is not in the bag - it had gone the way of evidence - but all the rest is there. Naturally, John has managed to find the only pair of jeans Sherlock owns and choose the least suitable shirt and socks. And a jacket - of _light tone_. Sherlock decides to forgive him. Weirdly enough Sherlock finds his razor and shaving cream. John has figured correctly: slaves are not allowed any sharp objects in prison. He decides not to waste time on shaving though. Irrelevant. The traitorous transport seems to have betrayed him. Very soon his body will shut down thanks to the three sleepless nights that followed his sentence. Additionally he finds his spare wallet with some change and a hidden lock pick behind a randomly chosen photo with a random girl. Apparently, John hasn't even opened it. Could be useful.

 

Despite wanting very much to throw the yellow slave garb into the rubbish, Sherlock makes himself fold it carefully and put it in the bag instead of his own clothes. First, he doesn't have this kind of disguise in his collection yet, and second, there is no reason to leave evidence.

 

In the cab Sherlock sits in the font seat. The driver raises the partition between them and is trying to not look in his direction. Sherlock can live with it. In a way it's even pleasant; he hates when cabbies try to make small talk. John is very quiet on the back seat: doesn't fidget, is silent. Perhaps he's dozed off? Sherlock can't hear his breathing; the sound of an engine drowns it out. Yes, he did fall asleep; Sherlock has to pay the fare himself before jostling John out of the car. Apparently for John the previous days have been more difficult than for Sherlock.

  


The wailing, tears and fresh pastry of Mrs Hudson are endured stoically by them both, although in a somewhat somnambulistic state. After that Sherlock plans to drop off on the sofa in the living room, but John almost drags him into the bedroom, muttering that after a prolonged sleep on the sofa Sherlock gets a crick in his neck and thus turns impossible. Total rubbish. It's just that John feels better when taking care of his helpless partner. It's a biological imperative, a herd instinct. No need to point it out though, just as with the socks.

 

The last thing Sherlock remembers is John whispering “vile thing” while unbuckling his collar, and forcefully throwing it aside. Lying down is a lot more comfortable after that, and not only because noting prevents his head from falling on the pillow.

 

Strange to be in his own bedroom again after four months. Sherlock falls asleep still numb with the realisation.

  


He wakes to a worried John cracking open his bedroom door. When he decides to step in Sherlock's mind supplies 'third time', which means that he's slept longer than planned.

 

John has always hated to wake him up. He is convinced that Sherlock sleeps too little as it is, but before this all happened, he'd at least come in, straighten the blanket, perhaps take his pulse and mutter something like, “can never get him to bed, and then he hibernates”. For some reason John loves these small signs of attention. Lost his mother early? A cold distant father? Could be either. This morning John restrains himself.

 

Sherlock rises. Feels his neck. The temporary collar and the heavy one from last night have already left their traces. Soon they will become permanent unless he figures out how to get rid of the humiliating slave status. Immaterial. It's just appearances, because John intends it to be so. Because he could- no. John couldn't.

 

And still Sherlock hates the feeling of dependency. Worse than childhood. Worse than when Mycroft managed to stick his nose into Sherlock's affairs. Mycroft is physically unable to stick his nose into anyone's affairs these days, but that only makes it worse.

 

He inhales steadily through his nose, then exhales. Sherlock knows human psychology very well, and he also knows that his reactions, unfortunately, don't differ that much from the norm, even though he does like to call himself a sociopath. What is going on with him now, which kind of inertia has overtaken his thoughts, is no secret.

 

John is not Myroft. He had no choice. Sherlock won't allow himself to hate John even for a second. He doesn't own Sherlock. No one can own another human being. It's just that _his friend_ went to great lengths to create a social fiction that bought Sherlock his safety.

 

Speaking of the purchase.

 

Sherlock walks through into the kitchen, managing not to disturb John. The doctor is almost comically focused conjuring coffee out of his new, rather simple coffee pot, which he's obviously bought some time during the last week and hasn't used once.

 

Sherlock waits until the pot is on the stove, and asks, “How did you manage to pay for a slave? My accounts are frozen.”

 

John practically jumps, turns around and sighs with an obvious relief. As if there's anyone else in the flat. Er, no. John peeked into Sherlock's room three times while he slept. Worried about his health. Or perhaps he was just checking if he was breathing.

 

“Good morning to you too. Coffee?”

 

“You're making for two anyway.” He shrugs. “Sure. So, where's the money from?”

 

John can't have secret accounts Sherlock knows nothing of, can he? Not in this lifetime.

 

“I...” He coughs, embarrassed. “Well. Remember I had your chequebook and you taught me how to sign it? I emptied the account the same day you were arrested. Figured they wouldn't have got to it yet... And the money could be put back at any moment. Came in handy, didn't it?”

 

A quick response time in a critical situation and a good tactical thinking – it was just like John: boring and tedious in a daily routine, utterly destructive in battle. It must have been imperative to draw the money the very same day, and the only time he was allowed to visit Sherlock in prison he hadn't said a word. He'd either suspected their enemies to be listening in (not entirely improbable), or simply hadn't got the time: Sherlock had practically buried him with various instructions. At that point he hadn't yet lost hope of uncovering whose strings Moriarty had been pulling in the government to take down Mycroft at the same time with his arrest.

 

“It wouldn't have been enough,” Sherlock argues. He isn't really interested in money _per se_ , but he always knows how much he has and where.

 

“Borrowed from Harry.” John shrugs. “She's more solvent than I am, so she took a loan. Mind you, we have to repay it.”

 

“Oh?” Sherlock waves his hand. “Immaterial.”

 

“What do you mean, immaterial? My ownership could be annulled!”

 

“Money's not a problem. Never has been. There's a countless number of quite legal and unbearably boring ways to acquire any sum of cash one could wish. It seems that our current circumstances are forcing me to put some effort into it.”

 

For a bit, John is silent. Then, almost uncertainly, he utters softly, “Thanks.”

 

“What for?” Sherlock frowns. “It's me... that should be thanking you. What you did...”

 

“Just don't tell me it's good.” It is possible that John is on the verge of explosion, and he needs to explain. “It is not good. It can't be. Should be entirely unnecessary. I know that you've never cared about the institution of slavery, but...”

 

“It's not that I don't care,” Sherlock corrects him, “I fully agree with your disapproval and it's by no means a recent shift in paradigm either. I've just never cared for individual slaves. To be just – it's true for free people too.”

 

“Yes, you are Mr. Equality yourself.” John snorts. Not on edge then; or he pulled himself together really quickly. “Same as always?”

 

“John, I don't like to repeat myself. What are you thanking me for? For not putting up a fight while you save me for a change?”

 

John doesn't answer. His hands are still dealing with the coffee pot.

 

“Yes, exactly. I do read your mind.” Sherlock nods. “That's how truly brilliant I am. On this occasion however, your meaning has escaped me.”

 

“For not... not doubting me when I turned up there, with a collar in my hand,” John says finally. “It's just that when you fell on your knees, you had such an expression on your face that I... Well. It scared me. Doesn't matter...” The mug is almost banged down in front of Sherlock. “Drink your coffee.”

  


The money really is a non-issue. In the past Sherlock had been forced to deal with it to get out from under Mycroft's overbearing care. Later he came into his inheritance and the need disappeared. Now though... John has no access to those accounts and all slave's possessions are confiscated by the government. One of the reasons this sentence is so often delivered, of course.

 

A couple of careful bets in races – he'd have to go to the bookmaker's himself though, John is too impulsive a gambler. Nobody looks twice at a collared slave conducting his master's business.

 

'It's fine,' Sherlock tells himself, 'it's for a case.' For an investigation. It's not him, it's another person lowering his head and walking near the walls, evading constables and drunken bullies. It isn't him talking in a low voice and abasing himself in front of the bookie, placing a bet in John Watson's name. It isn't him standing at attention in front of a strange woman of forty (a journalist, successful, hiding an affair, probably with the editor of her magazine) and waiting until she finishes staring at him and puts a card with her phone number into the pocket of his jacket. 

 

“Tell your master to call me. I have an interesting proposition.”

 

Slave's response is silence. Sherlock hates not being himself.

  


A week of trailing newspapers and Sherlock will be able to enter a stock market. Small sums at first, they have almost no funds. Some losses are inevitable even with his analytical skills; the important part is to gain more than to lose. Marking down the investments into a spiral-bound notebook John has bought, Sherlock laughs quietly to himself: how careful and thoughtful you have become, the master of deduction! Soon he'll settle down, buy a house in Sussex and start keeping his own bees... That is to say... John will buy a house in Sussex.

 

But money is a necessity. In this case John's miserly point of view holds true: they do need to fulfil their monetary commitments, although the bank didn't even try to present the conditions Harry got her loan on as fair (Urgent loan? But of course!).

 

Sherlock doesn't let himself think about the nature of this necessity, once and for all marking that scenario as 'absolutely impermissible'. By whatever means possible.

 

There are no cases. Absolutely none. No calls from Scotland Yard, no letters nor telegrams from private clients. Or well... There are some letters and telegrams, but none of them request their help. Mostly they are complaints, mostly addressed to John, and from the readers of The Strand Daily and fans of his _Crime Chronicles_.

 

After John has opened a couple of the first of such letters and falls silent for almost a whole twenty-four hours, Sherlock takes to burning all the irrelevant correspondence. The postman comes at eleven when John is usually already at work.

 

Sherlock's not too worried when John is silent; in some ways it is even more comfortable. He'd just prefer not to deal with the aftermath of a heart attack if it's avoidable.

  


“We'll have to get the permanent tattoo within this month,” Sherlock remarks at breakfast one morning. The temporary one, from prison, he'd washed off the first morning. Scrubbed raw.

 

John lets his spoon fall into the bowl of cereal. It seems he's suddenly lost his appetite.

 

“I'm touched by your sentiment,” Sherlock bits out somewhat venomously, “but I'd advise not to call any extra attention to our situation. It would be somewhat excessive.”

 

“Fine. I'll make an appointment with a licensed salon.” John clenches his jaw. “Shoulder?”

 

“Have you forgotten the regulation? I'll have to wear short sleeves in the dead of the winter.”

 

Unravelling of Moriarty's web has proved very difficult despite the fact that by the end of the first week at home Sherlock was spending all his time either up and about all around London or sitting in their living room surrounded by the daily newspaper editions.

 

Being socially crippled and having limited access to public places hasn't helped either. John can't always accompany him and they haven't had the chance to acquire appropriate fake documents yet. Disguises are not sufficient. His connections have turned ephemeral like smoke going through Sherlock's fingers. He's started thinking that he'll not finish this before winter. Unpleasant, but he has to be realistic about his options.

 

“The back of the palm,” Sherlock suggests then. “A glove will cover it easily.”

 

“No.” John shakes his head.

 

Sherlock raises his eyebrows.

 

“It will be difficult to remove later. The skin's delicate there. The lower arm is better. Near the wrist. Then you can just to turn up your sleeve for the police check.”

 

Sherlock looks at his friend for a moment and nods.

  


John also insists on visiting Mycroft in his expensive private clinic. Unfathomable how a J. Watson got onto the admission list. Perhaps Mycroft added the name to his documents on the off chance that John would some day have to tell him something concerning Sherlock while the elder Holmes was hospitalised?

 

Frowning, Sherlock wonders if that really could be the reason. Could his brother's manipulative nature somehow helped him to foresee the current ugly situation and thus force Sherlock into the weekly twenty minutes of boredom in the hallway? An additional torture among a long series of unpleasant situations.

 

He never enters the room. There's nothing to gawk at, and besides, Mycroft is unable to maintain his end of the conversation. And he never will be; adults don't recover from three months of vegetative state. Not as comforting as one might think.

 

Sherlock hates losing. The limp body of his prostrate brother under the sheets is the silent testament to his defeat. Back at the beginning, during the ongoing process when there still was a chance to fix everything, he kept looking for the connection between Moriarty and someone form the government. It would have been that much easier if he'd just admitted that Jim, despite all his flair, was not a player, but a pawn on the board. It wasn't Mycroft falling along side Sherlock, but Sherlock himself used as a distracting manoeuvre to once and for all get rid of the elder Holmes.

 

He should have realised. He should have realised sooner.

  


Two weeks later they finally receive a case offer via letter from an elderly lady from Devonshire. It is addressed to Sherlock Holmes personally and starts with sympathies of a somewhat vague nature although in a good tone: she could have been talking about an unfortunate turn in one's health; no mention of John Watson nor Richard Brook anywhere.

 

Further she presents her case, which in itself, isn't worth much. She has a nephew who's been living with her since adolescence (the aunt saved the child when the separating parents were trying to force their parenting responsibilities onto each other). Their house is a small building at the edge of a village, and their neighbour is an elderly gentleman, extremely reclusive, thought weird by the rest of the village because of his perpetually plastered fingers.

 

Recently though, his behaviour has become even stranger: he goes outside more infrequently, and for some reason has installed security bars on his second floor windows. Her nephew claims that while climbing into the neighbour's garden (motivated by a healthy dose of natural teenager curiosity), he heard Russian being spoken by a male voice in the house.

 

The lady is wondering how likely it is that Mr N is hiding a Soviet paratrooper on his attic. The paratrooper would supposedly be blackmailing the house owner and planning a strategic diversion in the local cannery.

 

Sherlock snorts, then grins and then bursts out laughing.

 

John, who's been calculating their profits after the yesterday's drop of slave prices on the Suriname black market, currently sporting spectacles on his nose, raises his head.

 

“Care to share your amusement?” he asks in a seemingly neutral tone, though the corners of his mouth have also turned slightly upwards.

 

“Later,” Sherlock promises. “I'm off to Mayfair. I need _Cages, Parrots_ and similar journals for the past... year, I think. They should have an 'exchange' sections in their adds.”

 

John gets up and puts his glasses into the case. “I'll come with.”

 

“John, I'm always glad to have you accompany me, but in this case it really isn't necessary.”

 

“They won't let you into the library,” John cuts him off. “I'll need to fill your sign-up form.”

 

“Yes.” He purses his lips. “Of course.”

 

Later that evening Sherlock sends his tactful correspondent a reply, informing her that her neighbour is keeping parrots, including specimens illegally imported from countries of South American Protectorate, thus hiding his passion. Now apparently, the geography of his illegal refugee saving exploits has spread, and Mr N has received a talking mynah from the Soviet Far East, which he'd been desperately trying to exchange for the birds in his collection for quite a long while.

 

At the end Sherlock suggests she calm her neighbour: in the British Empire it is not illegal to keep smuggled birds if they pass a veterinary inspection.

 

“We've caught the bird in our hand, didn't we?” John remarks.

 

“Attempted a pun with the bird idiom, didn't you?” Sherlock snorts.

 

His answer is an embarrassed cough.

  


  


  


The “bird” case indeed turns out to be a breakthrough – after that the cases start pouring in, if not from the horn of plenty, then at least regularly. It becomes a true saving grace, since the investigation of Moriarty's web is still going nowhere. John has advertised in The Strand Daily that he's taking on private cases in his own name, which invites another wave of letters and telegraphs from the outraged opponents of slavery, but among them, there are also job offers.

 

Life on Baker Street is back on its usual track. Indeed, very little has changed; John continues doing the shopping, making tea, and grumbling about Sherlock refusing to eat. There are some particulars, but Sherlock decides not to draw John's attention to them just yet; it could be a case of simple statistic anomaly. Besides, he's really not interested in John getting back to nagging at him about whose turn it is to do the dishes again.

 

And then they have “The Case of the Mad Blackmailer”, as John aptly names it in his notebooks, and the chase where they dash after the aforementioned blackmailer (an absolute halfwit, though the nature of his wit being a half only makes it more difficult to catch him) straight through the halls of Harrods.

 

The lad is bent on destroying the incriminating evidence and Sherlock isn't inclined to allow it. John is on their heels, but still behind; even without the limp, his legs are much shorter. In truth, Sherlock is also lagging – the youth has developed an excellent speed; had the Olympic team accepted him in his time, it could now be performing with marginally better results and the criminal world could have had lost one of its followers.

 

Nevertheless, Sherlock doesn't want to give up and at first is delighted to hear John's shout of 'stop the thief' behind him. He figures that even discounting the security, at this time of day there should be plenty of young tough lads in the shopping centre who'd be overjoyed with the opportunity...

 

His delight evaporates the same instant his jaw is met with a hardy fist. The blow is nasty, hurtful; one might very well say goodbye to his teeth after a couple of blows like this. Out of pure reflex he turns round to get his assailant back twice as hard when an excruciating burning pain in his neck incapacitates him. All of it - the face and the neck - is so crushingly abhorrent that he drops straight to the ground, knees hitting the cool tiles, his forehead the stone floor.

 

“What are you...” John's voice above him sounds aghast and a bit frightened.

 

An unfamiliar male voice answers him, “Are you all right, sir? What did this slave steal? Do you know where his master is?”

 

Sherlock manages to raise his tearing eyes and sees a muscular thug in the supermarket's security guard uniform standing over him. In his half-lowered hand he's holding a generic remote to a slave collar; scratched, approximately three years old, the battery lid fixed with a tape, at least ten different users. The so-called 'general frequency device', affects all standard models. They are usually assigned to security services, the police and fire departments.

 

… A wide hall of a shopping centre; crowds of people rushing by on their tracks like ants, each minding their own business. Three figures are frozen on a square of white tiles on the South-Eastern side of it. One figurine is on its knees. Some ant-people are starting to gather round; it's always interesting to see how a runaway slave is punished. Or maybe he is not a runaway? Perhaps he just misbehaved?

 

The guard is holding the remote. The bones in John's clenched fists are white.

 

Sherlock's never seen the remote which came with his own collar. Most likely John has hidden it away somewhere or maybe he even threw it out.

 

“I am his master.” John is again using that dry, tension-filled voice. “Here are the documents. He hasn't stolen anything. He was chasing a thief as I ordered him to.”

 

“Could you describe the thief, sir? Let's try to catch him,” the guard responds in a business-like manner. “I'm sorry for the misunderstanding.”

 

While Sherlock is gathering his strength and getting up (there's nothing to hold on to and naturally no one helps him), John manages to quickly list the distinctive features of the fugitive and even describe the evidence (“a stack of audio cassettes in a plastic bag, he might be trying to destroy them”).

 

The security gets the blackmailer at one of the exits. The visit to Scotland Yard follows and then giving the statements, which mostly, John takes onto himself. Although before they reach the Yard, John stops at the grocer's and comes back with a packet of ice.

 

“Hold it to the bruise,” he barks.

 

Sherlock obeys. He holds the ice as told until it melts, and by then the feel of nausea along with the simmering rage have still not abated.

  


The first thing John tries to do at the flat is to apologize. Sherlock cuts him off without listening.

 

“However flattering it might seem to your self-esteem, you are not the one to have created the modern society,” he states shortly and drops onto the sofa.

 

Sherlock has no intention of venting his anger on John. It would be absolutely irrational, futile, and not to mention ineffective. Besides, he knows very well that John shouted for help in the heat of the moment without any subconscious (or conscious) wish to humiliate Sherlock. He also understands that the 'ice incident' was a perfectly normal response of care for John, and that four months ago he would have acted in exactly the same way.

 

Alas, despite trying to distance himself from the mix of barely controllable emotions, called forth by the adrenalin and thyroxine boiling in his blood, Sherlock can't escape into his mind palace.

 

“Let me see your face,” John suggests.

 

“Nothing's broken.”

 

“I can see that. What about teeth?”

 

“They're fine.”

 

In truth, one of his lower teeth is a bit loose and aches unpleasantly. Sherlock had just been in the process of feeling it with his tongue, tasting blood.

 

“Well then, I'll just... Do you need anything? I'll go make dinner.”

 

“Go,” Sherlock replies gloomily, moodily, brooding.

 

John goes to the kitchen and busies himself at the sink. Perfectly natural. The doctor's pedantic nature demands him to start with the dishes, which he naturally does himself. Even though yesterday John was away until late, wasting his precious time on runny noses of some strangers while Sherlock had been relatively idle, because the case only came today with the morning post.

 

Before, in this kind of situation John would have given Sherlock hell about the dishes. At least half of the mountain had appeared as a result of Sherlock's tests on mould samples, so _wouldn't he be so kind_ as to dirty his hands with the cleaning process for a change?

 

Sherlock almost hears John's irritated and weary voice in his head, and then as if for a purposeful contrast, John starts whistling “Somewhere over the rainbow”. Ineptly.

 

That's where Sherlock almost loses it. Almost. But he does manage to stay calm and maintain his icy demeanour. Then though, for some reason he rises, covers the distance to the sink in few steps, and ignoring John's indignant shout, pulls the stupid plate in a blue flower pattern from his hands to throw it into the farthest wall. The plate flies through the whole flat and shatters near the creepy yellow smiling stick-man face.

 

Sherlock doesn't stop to admire his accuracy; he grabs John by the shoulders, turns him around and growls into his face, “Stop that!”

 

“Sherlock.” John raises his eyes. His shoulders under Sherlock's fingers feel wooden. “That was Mrs Hudson's plate. You are going to have to apologise.”

 

His expression seems calm, but with a dark, boiling pleasure Sherlock sees that John is starting to get worked up. John doesn't even feel guilty, does he? And snapping too!

 

“Stop,” Sherlock repeats his growl. “I'm sick and tired of your damn hypocrisy and your condescension!”

 

“Hypocrisy...?” John's face suddenly darkens with true rage. “How the hell am I a hypocrite?”

 

“Through and through!” Sherlock pulls at the collar on his neck, experiencing the pain with an inexplicable satisfaction.

 

Usually he removes the loathsome contraption as soon as he comes home (John has given him the key), but this time he didn't – no idea why.

 

“'Oh my God, poor Sherlock, he so fragile, I'm not going to nag at him to put his papers away until his ears bleed, nor tell him to do the dishes, lest he be reminded of being a slave one more time! I'd better mollycoddle him like a sick child; let him get used to following my orders gently and then he'll be so much easier to control. Thank God, I have a chance at managing him now!'”

 

“What?!” John takes a step back, but Sherlock follows him. “Do you seriously believe that? How can you even...”

 

“What the hell am I supposed to think? You've always, from the moment we met, acted as if I'm not good for anything, as if I'd perish at the hands of the first idiot robber I come across! And now, here you go, as you please - I'm really no good for anything any more! I can't even fill out a form at the library! Happy, John Watson? Such a balm on the wounded vanity of a little man! No one could hold Sherlock Holmes back, and now, you give a shout and look – the whole of Scotland Yard is at your service! A sound investment it turned out to be, didn't it? Oh, no! What am I saying – it wasn't even your money. Not a dime to your name, is there? And never has been.”

 

Sherlock is not shouting. Instead, he's smiling slightly, coldly; speaks in a controlled, snide tone. He aims at John's innermost centre of insecurities, at his anxieties, complexes; everything Sherlock knows his friend carries with him, the things they never speak of – of John feeling of uselessness and his almost debilitating sensitivity towards money matters.

 

John was supposed to explode, run out of the flat (the most probable), punch him (much less probable), lose his composure and get hysterical (probability of almost zero). Instead, John does the most improbable. He acts as if Sherlock has hit close, but not the weakest spot, as if it were a usual altercation between two idiots with two lumps of ordinary, boring brain matter in their skulls, and Sherlock has been flailing around blind.

 

John's face darkens, he too seizes his friend's shoulders, pushes him back and starts shouting.

 

“Fuck, Sherlock! You sodding cocky bastard! Everything, fucking everything, revolves around you, how could it not? Oh, my fucking God, he's become a slave! The whole bloody world is standing on its head! Do you even understand what it cost me?! Do you even get how it feels – to walk the streets and know that you are somewhere behind me, and that every bloody kid can spit on you for no sodding reason, just like that, for fun? Do you have any idea how people at work look at me now?! Oh, he's bought his best friend for a slave, interesting, what for? Oh you know, a confirmed bachelor that Dr Watson, isn't he? Yes, yes, that's what I thought! Sherlock, you bugger, I had to change the clinics! You think that was easy? There's an economical crisis going on, if you'd care to look around you! And now with that bloody loan, you have any idea how much crap I had to take before Harry even agreed to help us? Did it even occur to you?! No, of course not! What am I thinking? Not when the great Sherlock Holmes is bloody immersed in his bitter bloody brooding!”

 

Sherlock is chocking with anger and bewilderment. It's absurd... why would he... After all, it's not John, who's a slave! It's not his freedom being restricted!

 

“I'm brooding? Yes, of course, because you prefer not to think at all, don't you? Let Sherlock do all the thinking, why not? You'll just whistle a tune and all will settle by itself!”

 

“... It's all because of you, from the beginning, you buggered brain idiot! You are the one that got involved with that sodding maniac Moriarty, and from then on failed to see farther than your own nose! Solved his puzzles like an donkey with a carrot on a stick! Hell, your face would scare every damn carrot! The donkey would have nightmares about it!”

 

How dare he...

 

“Leave my face alone, this chin is the Holmes family trait! A distinctive feature. You bloody... dwarf!”

 

“I'm a dwarf now, am I? And the girly locks – is that a family trait too? You spend more time on spraying your hair in the morning than I brushing my teeth!”

 

“It only means you've no idea how to brush your teeth properly! And I don't use hair spray!”

 

“I've heard it!”

 

“It's hair mousse! Mousse! For men! Look at you! You can't even dress yourself! Even my homelss network wouldn't take your jumpers!”

 

“Not true! I gave them an old one. They took it!”

 

They scorch each other with their eyes, foreheads almost touching; Sherlock's leaning down, John's backbone stretched out, chin lifted. Their hands are still on each others' shoulders, Sherlock clutching at John's cardigan, John crumpling Sherlock's linen shirt.

 

Suddenly John's lips twitch and he giggles. Sherlock exhales through his teeth and he too realises the absurdity of the situation. A second later they are howling with laughter. Sherlock's diaphragm is compressing rather painfully and his jaw is aching again. Apparently John doesn't feel much better, because they have both slid down to the floor, holding onto each other; somehow they've managed to settle with their backs to the fridge. Sherlock doesn't notice how his head ends up on John's shoulder, but he's quite comfortable with it - his back of the head still hurts from laughing, although he can't even laugh properly any more; the most he's able to do is gasp silently.

 

“Sorry,” John utters. “If doing the dishes matters that much to you then go ahead.”

 

Almost against his will Sherlock bursts out laughing again. After a second John joins him.

 

But that will definitely not do.

 

“I said that it was hypocritical of you not to remind me of the dishes, not that I will actually bother with washing up until there's a piece of clean crockery in the cupboard.” Then out of the blue Sherlock accidentally touches his loose tooth and curses.

 

“What?” John stiffens.

 

“I've got a loose tooth.”

 

“You said you were fine!”

 

“It's not lethal.”

 

“God damn you... Go visit the dentist before the jaw swells up!”

 

“Is that an order, master?” he replies with a put-on indifference and then freezes, cold with dread.

 

John though, responds quite normally. Perfectly even:

 

“A strict one. Under the pain of starvation. Or you won't be able to chew soon.”

 

And they are back to giggling. This time until truly breathless.

  


  
TBC...


	2. Refuge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! Thank you for waiting, whoever did and subscribed. I know it was along wait, but the story is not abandoned, I'm in the middle of the third chapter now. I'm also grateful to everyone who's reviewed. For some reason after a couple of thoughtful remarks from the readers my working speed rises. I know it doesn't make sense, but it's true. :)
> 
> My special thanks go to Charlotte who beta-read the chapter and made it readable. All the remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Enjoy! :)

Sherlock used to visit this dental clinic periodically. He happened to do a favour to the owner some time ago and has received a decent discount since. At least partly because all the buzz in the press proved to be good publicity for the business.

 

This time, though, no sooner have the glass doors opened than the girl from behind the counter starts waving her hands and yelling:

 

“No slaves! Slaves are not allowed! Shoo! Shoo!”

 

Sherlock freezes, and pointedly staring at the receptionist's left ear (slaves are forbidden to look free citizens in the eye, but no one has said anything about ears), he utters coldly, “Tell Mr Pound that Sherlock Holmes is here to see him.”

 

The girl is new, Sherlock doesn't remember her from his previous visits. She's appraising him – probably evaluating his coat and trying to determine if he could be the property of some business partner or potential client. Her doubts are resolved quickly and unequivocally: Mr Pound himself jumps out of his office, in a white robe and with a surgical mask crumpled under his chin.

 

“You!” He's staring at Sherlock with astonishment on his face, which could be interpreted in five different ways at least. Agitation – the most obvious of emotions. Indignation. Fear.

 

His wound-up demeanour does not in any way resemble his usual composure, namely that of a professional who knows his own worth, and much less even the reverence he used to treat Sherlock with before. Sherlock knows what earned him the previous servility as well as he knows the molar mass of hydrogen: during his investigation he'd uncovered some discrepancies in tax reports, but hadn't bothered to communicate them to the Yard – very dull. 

 

Some of his, as John likes to call them, “secret service of gratitude” (shoe shop owners, salespersons, restaurateurs, and other people from the service sector) are indeed sincerely grateful. Angelo, for instance: not only does he eagerly help him in his investigations, he behaves as if he's receiving tickets to the first row seats when it happens.

 

Sherlock knows that Pound is not like that. The Dentist's motivation is fear. On the other hand, Pound is a professional – even with a discount his services are not cheap and justifiably so.

 

“Remember me? Good,” Sherlock says icily. “Let's get down to business, shall we? I need...” He throws a quick glance around the waiting room, but it's empty.

 

Pound moves a bit nearer. “I could spit on what you need, slave,” he pronounces slowly and clearly with put-on indifference. “Get the hell out of here. Or do you want me to call security? Or the police? I'm sure you'll find quite a lot of people will be happy to see you.”

 

Well, he did start the contest himself... Sherlock holds his gaze with ease. With an exaggerated amazement he raises his eyebrow. He is a bit surprised by Pound's reaction; he thought the man more intelligent.

 

“The only thing they'll do is to escort me out of the slave-free zone,” Sherlock states. “Perhaps fine my master. With a sum roughly equal to the one for half an hour of illegal parking. I'm sure he'll survive. The question is, can your clinic survive after something I know becomes public, Derek?”

 

“They should have put you on a chain, not collar you.” Pound's face has turned purple. His hand rises, but Sherlock stands, motionless, only his lips are shaped into a smirk, more resembling a scowl. Smiling is the last thing Sherlock feels like doing. The last time he felt a cold shivering rage like this... Yes, it must have been right before Moriarty's process when Riley allowed herself to demonstrate her arrogance and vulgarity.

 

Pound can't hit him without John's permission. Corporal punishment of another's slave is the strictest taboo of society. Sherlock almost wishes that Pound wouldn't hold back.

 

He does. “You know what's the beauty of this situation?” Pound asks leaning back slightly and shifting his weight onto his heels. “I don't have to listen to you anymore. Nobody has to. You're a slave, you can't testify in court, can't even prove anything. You want to try persuading your master to stick a lawsuit on me or go to the police – go ahead! Let's see what will come of it.”

 

Sherlock, too, stands up straighter. He opens his mouth to spit out a biting threat twirling on the tip of his tongue, to remind Pound of his connections in different spheres of London society which haven't gone anywhere, to point out that his master is perfectly capable of filing a complaint or two, bringing into public view the schemes of buying confiscated materials for prosthetics through third parties – although the Dentist isn't even aware that Sherlock knows about the last...

 

Then suddenly everything stops. That continuous noise of thousands of hateful thoughts, of thousands of condescending voices whispering to him how to humiliate, to betray, to destroy even more effectively – all of it stops.

 

Boredom. Boredom and vulgarity.

 

Sherlock almost said it out loud. Pound knows nothing, nothing about him or his friend – master – John.

 

The detective again sees himself from above and afar: there's an ordinary street, crammed with blocks of buildings. One of them has a cardboard sign on the façade, brightly lit glass doors and a girl-doll displayed behind the counter to attract the public. Inside the waiting room two figurines are leaning towards each other, their fists clenched: all the classic signs of a face-off. One has a white coat, the other is wearing a collar.

 

Nothing unusual or especially fascinating.

 

An ordinary middle-class establishment, not a crime scene to be brilliant in. The only thing he needs here, from this undeserving hell hole, is to find a specialist able to fix a problem of physical nature which is neither significant nor urgent. There is no need to prove... What was it that he was trying to prove here just now? That he's still dangerous? That he's perfectly capable calling in old debts?

 

Pointless endeavour. Highly irrational, fruitless and potentially harmful. A lapse in judgement of simply colossal proportions considering his experience and intellect. Genius needs an audience, but he already has one that's a lot more appreciative. Pound is not a parterre, not even a silly gallery with its open cavity. He's no one. He's less than no one. A nasty insect. An insect can sting, true – but what's the point in squelching under your boot each and every poisonous pest in a tropical forest?

 

Sherlock steps back. Lowers his head. Thinks of apologising, but that would be overkill. Besides, in spite of having almost calmed down internally, his jaw and fists are still clenching reflexively: he's not sure he can force a word out yet. He turns round and leaves.

 

“There's a municipal hole for the likes of...” Sherlock hears Pound saying. The end of the sentence is cut off by the massive door.

 

The 'municipal hole' is just down the street and Sherlock doesn't even need to walk past to remember it: he's been there for a case. A shabby medical centre with equipment worthy of torture chambers, and a separate wing for 'townies': slaves in cleaning services, garbage collecting, and such – the majority of whom have been picked from homeless crowd. Generally they tend to escape the slavery quickly (municipal collars are cheap, it's not difficult to find a handyman to pick it), soon appear back on the streets only to be nabbed for vagrancy once more. For many this cycle goes on for years, until due to repeat offences they're are taken to the mines, hard labour camps or sent to the mines on the continent.

 

Before, about a decade ago, the freedom of people unwilling to put on the yoke of society had been respected. Only criminals and debtors were enslaved. On the other hand, now the streets of London are, indeed, a lot cleaner.

 

Turning his face towards the windy sky Sherlock grimly thinks it's a shame that Pound had managed to hold back. If he hadn't, Sherlock would have...

 

Suddenly Sherlock feels an icy stab in his solar plexus. For a second he can't even recall how to breathe.

 

If Pound had hit him, Sherlock would have retaliated. After what happened yesterday – definitely. His patience, his ability to play-act and bid his time have reached their limit. And a slave who hits a free man can be sentenced to penal labour, or even to a deadly injection like a rabid dog. Not the best way to go for a man who'd hoped to at least take out his most vicious enemy as his life's work.

 

Not the best legacy for John. In that case Moriarty's people would get to John, no problem. Actually, they can do it now, and it's not only John under the hammer. Sherlock has to unravel this damned Jim mess before dealing with his personal little grievances.

 

Sherlock inhales through his nose and grits his teeth. Frowns: the loose tooth pierces his jaw with blinding pain. The timing's bloody inconvenient. Fine. Let's deal with that tooth. Body is transport, but even transport needs to be seen to occasionally. He won't go to a municipal dentist, though. Not even for John.

 

 

Sherlock knows that many personal slaves, especially those owned by millionaires, visit ordinary clinics for the middle (or lower middle) class. Sometimes they even have their own health insurance. Ergo, he needs an establishment that offers decent treatment and accepts cash from anyone whether they're wearing a collar or not.

 

Having applied the same methods as with the Chinese restaurants, Sherlock finds a suitable place in central London. Although it's a small clinic and not in the busiest street (residential area, ethnic district - rent must be cheaper), it's also a respectable place and the clientèle is quite diverse, including not entirely legal immigrants and seasonal workers. The place is owned by a woman of Indian descent who studied in England. Lives and works legally, but has a soft spot for charity cases and especially immigrants from her homeland, which is the reason she's not better off, although on the whole she's not doing too bad. In short, she's one of those people you'd call 'a good person' and 'a pillar of the crown'.

 

Since the door lacks the sign of the crossed out collar, Sherlock enters – and instead of finding himself in the lobby with a reception table, he appears to have stepped into a rather cosy room with a small table holding a Russian samovar. Sitting at the table are three women: one obviously from India (the owner) in a blue medical gown, one from Eastern Europe somewhere (probably the owner of the samovar), wearing a white gown over a blouse and a skirt, and one in ordinary clothing (salesperson, selling cosmetics). The tea is drunk from Arabic bowls.

 

“Hello.” The owner sets the bowl down. “Do you have an appointment?”

 

“No.” Sherlock shakes his head once. “But you're obviously not busy at the moment. I need a tooth removed. Lower, number seven. It won't take you long.”

 

“Removed, huh?” the dentist sighs.

 

The Russian (or a Pole?) makes a face, a judgement either on his confidence or on his slave status, but says nothing. The saleswoman pointedly stares past him.

 

“Let's take a look then.”

 

At length the dentist studies his teeth, frowns, then gives her opinion, “Number six is chipped; easy to fix. Seven is salvageable, I think; oral cavity is fine, but you need an X-ray. Can you pay?”

 

Sherlock nods. “I have money.” He notes that she didn't ask if his master would pay.

 

The X-ray is done by the blonde nurse, not Russian after all he decides, but still from somewhere in the USSR. Perhaps Yugoslavia. Married, two children, husband works in construction. Clothing and make-up are very cheap - from sales in the supermarket; all for the sake of her children. Definitely not an abolitionist – she avoids looking at his collar (and Sherlock himself) as much as she can.

 

“Well. Nothing serious,” the dentist decides, examining his X-ray. “Take your coat off, we need to apply the splint. It'll cost you...” She hesitates before naming the sum.

 

“I don't need any discounts, Dr Desai,” Sherlock answers shortly, surprising himself.

 

“Oh.” She purses her lips. “Right. You know best. Any allergies?”

 

Her work is efficient, precise and quick, Sherlock notes. He also notices that she's quite attractive; John would like her. A bit under forty, though someone unobservant or not familiar with racial particularities wouldn't give her more than thirty-two or thirty-five. A touch on the heavy side, but not plump, dark long hair in a braid, no make-up, and not only at work – at all. The make-up girl is here for another reason then. Not married and most probably never has been. Has a lover, though, a long-term relationship, but they don't see each other too often, and she is the one to hold back. Most probably heterosexual.

 

Once she's finished, Sherlock turns to her (thank God the sedative hasn't affected his tongue much).

 

“It wasn't him.”

 

“What are you talking about?” She looks up from the tools she's arranging.

 

“You were looking at my collar with almost painful interest, which I must confess you hid very well. Not well-enough for an experienced observer, though. You probably don't have much contact with personal slaves, as you don't get them as clients very often, but your interest is clearly a bit more than idle curiosity. You obviously realised that my slave status is a recent development and it's made you deeply sympathetic. One of your closest has undergone a similar experience. A fiancé, or more probably a sibling. It happened a while ago and you've lost all contact with them and know nothing about their fate. But the feeling of guilt hasn't abandoned you and you continue seeing them in every slave you meet.  
You've been wondering if it was my master that hit me so hard to rattle a tooth loose. So, no. It wasn't him. And there's no need to feel sorry for me.”

 

“Got lucky with the master?” Her dark chocolate eyes under thinly plucked brows watch him cautiously, carefully.

 

“Yes.” Sherlock nods. “I guess you could say that.”

 

The woman looks away and he narrows his eyes.

 

“You knew someone who also thought they were lucky?”

 

She looks up at him again. “Are you reading my mind? By the way, what's your name? I haven't met you before, have I?”

 

“Holmes.” He jerks his head - 'no'. “Irrelevant. So who got lucky with their master and why don't you want to talk about it? Come on, I hope it's at least mildly entertaining.”

 

She snorts. “You must be cosmically lucky not to be beaten with that tongue on you. It's my brother, Mr Holmes.”

 

“And?” He tilts his head.

 

Her push at her instrument case is a bit harsher than necessary. “Do you expect me to tell you my life story now?”

 

“Why not? It's the middle of your work day and no work in sight. I'm interested, and in any case I need to wait for the sedative to wear off. And you clearly want to talk about it.”

 

The dentist hesitates.

 

“Well, why not, indeed. I'm from India-”

 

“The State of Kerala.” He nods.

 

“How did you know?”

 

“Your earrings. I apologise, continue.”

 

She sighs. “My father was a dentist and wanted for me to get my education in the former metropolis, so we could expand our business. He'd had a sizeable inheritance, but by the beginning of the nineties the business had diminished. Still he managed to send me to live with my uncle in Great Britain. It was only later that I found out he...” She falters.

 

“Sold your younger brother to pay for your education?” he finishes for her. “Incredible! I knew that Kerala was one of the most progressive states, but I had no idea that their emancipation was so far progressed that a daughter's well-being might be considered more important than son's... Oh! Right.” He snaps his fingers. “Product of adultery, wasn't he? You weren't aware.”

 

Dr Desai shakes her head. “You must be a profitable client, Mr Holmes.”

 

“I doubt it.” Getting the dig, Sherlock grins. “I was unlucky today, it won't happen again. So, what happened then? You found out, cut the ties with your parents...”

 

“Not right away. At first I worked like a horse – during my studies, then at Father's clinic. First I saved up to pay Father back and after... Finally I had enough to buy out a slave. Ten years had gone by and my brother was almost twenty, his market value was expected to drop. Adolescent boys are more expensive than young males. I went to Mr Osmani's audience and he even received me. He was very cordial, offered me a glass of cold water and told me that he would accept half of the sum he'd paid for my brother if he agreed to leave with me voluntarily. And then Mr Osmani called him in.”

 

She falls silent.

 

“He refused?” Sherlock clarifies.

 

“He was wearing a golden collar.” Desai's shoulder jerks as if in a half-shrug. “He didn't even talk to me – fell to his knees in front of his master and tearfully begged not to be sent away. He rubbed Mr Osmani's boot with his cheek like a faithful dog. He was... very beautiful, our Arvind. Just like our mother.”

“Did you notice any evidence of narcotic influence?” Sherlock raises his brows.

 

“Opium in his Kaalan and hashish at most, I think.” She shakes her head. “No needle marks... at least on his arms. He was naked above the waist.”

 

She falls silent again.

 

“That means mostly psychological conditioning. And you haven't seen him for the last ten years?”

 

“No, of course not. I don't even know if he's still alive. In India there are... some enlightened businessmen who actually kill their slaves when they cease bringing them pleasure. When the slave starts shaving for instance. So I've been told. In Britain manners are milder though.” When she raises her eyes, the look in them is bitter. “Slavery is much more civilised here. You can even get fined for killing a slave!”

 

“You're right, Dr Desai,” Sherlock replies, tracing the edge of his collar with his fingers, almost subconsciously. “Slavery can never be morally justified.”

 

“I don't understand what you're talking about,” the woman replied firmly. “Slavery is the basis of the British economy.”

 

“I'm not an informant.” Sherlock waves his hand. “And not a decoy. And why would I even try to get you talking if I already knew who your contact with the underground abolitionists is?.. Contact me if there's anything I can do.” He lifts a business card out of his pocket and hands it over. “My master, Dr John Watson, takes private cases for my services.”

 

He nods before parting.

 

 

Waiting for the sedative to wear off, Sherlock spends the rest of the day wandering around the streets. Sometimes he forgets to look down and meets the indignant looks of passersby. In Regent's Park he is driven off the main walking path by a cop, and Sherlock lets him without getting into an argument. He's thinking. There's plenty of food for thought.

 

Among other things he visits the library, makes a couple of inquiries via phone, sends two international letters and one telegram. At least at the post office no one pays him any attention: it's quite common for slaves to send letters for their masters. They even have a separate 'slave window' so that they don't have to queue with their betters. Sherlock remembers that the slave queue sometimes moves even faster during the rush hour, because personal slaves mostly belong to influential people and therefore it might be potentially dangerous to keep them waiting. At this moment, though, it is of no consequence since the post office is empty.

 

Sherlock returns home only after dark; John is home. He's lounging on the sofa, feet up on the coffee table, and reading _The Lancet_. More accurately, he's been staring at the beginning of the article about hypoglycemia for about fifteen minutes now. Raising his eyes to Sherlock, he feels relief, but doesn't voice it.

 

“Good evening,” he says. “Lasagne is in the fridge, if you're inclined to eat.”

 

“I've boxed you in,” Sherlock offers in lieu of an answer while tugging off his gloves.

 

“Come again?”

 

“I've boxed you in,” Sherlock repeats grimly. “You can't start a family or even a relationship.” He slides off his coat and hangs it behind the door. “You can't move flats because it would be problematic to find a landlady with a similar attitude to slaves and me in particular.” He draws a key form his suit pocket, swiftly unlocks his collar at the back of his neck, and carelessly deposits the device on the shelf. “You can't lead your own life, because I neither have proper freedom of movement nor can I act independently without you, both of which I need for my work. You can't even have any guests over, because every woman would immediately start wondering about your life choices and the way you manage your movable property.” There's contempt and bitter irony in Sherlock's tone. “It's a dead end, John Watson.”

 

Judging by the calm expression on John's face, these words don't appear to hold any revelatory value. “And where is the novelty in that? It seems to me that everything is exactly as it was before.”

 

“It's slavery for us both!” 

 

“It's not slavery for either of us!” John explodes. Then he visibly reins himself in and puts the magazine down. “Damn it, Sherlock, I realise that you don't like our situation, but stop trying to... I don't know what you're trying to do or how exactly you want to manipulate me! I entered this situation of my own free will and I still think it was worth it. Don't you? Do you think you'd have managed to run and then what? What did you plan on doing then?”

 

“I was planning on faking my death and going into hiding.” Sherlock perches himself on the edge of the sofa, near John. “It might have been a more sensible way. Less painful.”

 

“Might have?” John raises an eyebrow.

 

“I've decided that so far we've both been carried away by the momentum and overestimated the seriousness of the situation for me, and underestimated it for you. Yesterday's disagreement clearly demonstrated it.”

 

“Ah! You were listening to me after all.” John smiles slightly. “The momentum, yes. Well, it's been two months already, you know.”

 

“Irrelevant.” Sherlock waves his hand. A thousand thoughts are rushing through his head, thousands of scenarios, thousands of women with a million dazzling smiles, tens thousands of hands, billions of words – said and unsaid – in tens of alternative universes. “I find our circumstances just as distasteful as you do, although I still find myself indifferent to the lives of strangers. However (and I don't want you to take this the wrong way), the idea of you being unable to do anything else but accept me in your life sounds rather appealing.”

 

John smiles.

 

“You sound as if before the Moriarty case I'd been on the verge of ending our friendship.”

 

“It's more than a partnership now,” Sherlock states, because it's the truth. “Now our union has become a vital necessity, and not only for me. Modern society's hypocrisy is becoming less and less bearable to you.”

 

Instead of replying, John covers Sherlock's hand with his.

 

Curious reaction. It probably means nothing more than a friendly support in this context, right? Either way it's obvious to Sherlock that John's sexual exploits are not limited to the female population even if he does generally prefer their company. Perhaps what he's set out to do will be even easier than he thought. 

 

“What would you say if I kissed you right now?” he asks, hoping his voice betrays nothing but cold, clinical curiosity.

 

John grunts and looks away. “I'd say that it's a horrific idea, potentially dangerous to our relationship and unhealthy all around.”

 

“You've always liked dangerous.” Sherlock shrugs.

 

John frowns. “It's not about me, it's about you.”

 

“It's about you too!” Sherlock says with passion. “Stop doubting me. All of this -” he slightly touches the traces of the collar on his neck. “- means nothing. We agreed on the very first day that we won't let it come between us. And what do I see now? You're still thinking in old paradigms. That's where your true hypocrisy lies! If not for this minor inconvenience, what would you-”

 

He can't finish his speech since John is already kissing him: desperately, hungrily and almost as if for the last time – first time. His lips, narrow, dry and chapped from winter wind, his warm mouth, his deft, but slightly flailing (from his emotional tumult) movements - all are testament to his fears, his anguish and hopelessness. It all narrows down to that one moment, that sole once-in-a-lifetime insane attempt to demonstrate (and prove)... what? That appearances don't matter? That he's ready and that he takes Sherlock as he is, under any circumstances?

 

Although Sherlock doesn't consider himself to be particularly experienced in displaying sincere feelings, he too leans forward, opens up, presses against John, holds on to his shoulders.

 

The logistics of lips, teeth and tongue, as it turns out, call for some working out, but on the whole...

 

They break apart from each other, laughing.

 

“God, that was awful,” John gets out between his giggles, wiping tears from his eyes.

 

“We need to practise,” Sherlock confirms, chuckling. “Repeatedly. You're sleeping in my room tonight.”

 

“Okay.” John nods and starts giggling again.

 

Instead of replying Sherlock kisses him again.

 

Yes. This is the only way. You have no other refuge besides my lips and my hands. I have nothing but your body in my arms.

 

 

Procrastinating, Sherlock stands in front to the mirror in the bathroom, checking his own determination. How much does he want this? A long time ago he promised himself not to get involved in sexual experimentation unless he was... attracted. He's attracted to John, that much is certain. But to what extent? How fair is his plan to John? 

 

Irrelevant. They're both grown men. And it's just sex. Most people have it without giving it more than a passing thought. They've already crossed the frightening (at least for Sherlock) line of intimacy. What significance can physical contact with fluid exchange possibly add to that?

 

He touches the dark mark on his neck. It can add a damn lot. It's either going to free them or introduce awkwardness they've never even dreamed of. On the other hand, no one has ever had a reason to accuse Sherlock Holmes of being a coward.

 

Determinedly, he strides to his bedroom and dives under the covers, to John. John puts away the book he was reading, shuts off the light. And once more starts giggling.

 

“Stop it this instant,” Sherlock warns him, “or I won't be responsible for my actions.”

 

“Sorry. It's just that we are such a married couple that...”

 

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

 

“A century ago marriage was practically a contract of ownership in our country. There was a time – not a long one, granted – where in certain counties husbands even had the right to sell their wives into slavery. So I guess, in a way, we could view our circumstances in the light of...”

 

At this point Sherlock has to shut up because John turns to him, pushes him down on the bed and rolls himself over Sherlock, supporting himself on straight arms on the pillow on either side of his head.

 

“I don't want to view it in any light,” he growls. “Sodding hell, Sherlock, it's not a laughing matter, do you understand? You are everything I've got, but I don't own you. I don't want to own you!”

 

“But you do own me,” Sherlock corrects him calmly, even though his heart is beating violently. At this angle, in the twilight, John's face is strange, unfamiliar. “And you do want to. But it is normal, John, because I, too, own you.”

 

In the most ancient way possible. In the only way that matters. Blood and loyalty. Two against the world, backs to the mast (Sherlock snorts at that thought). Brotherhood of arms, partnership, unity. Does John realise that?

 

John's lips form an uncertain smile. He clears his throat and his voice is hoarse when he says, “How long?”

 

“Don't you know?”

 

John nods. A kiss happens again, this time more successfully. John, having the better position, shows his strategic initiative and skilfully exploits it: accurate bites and light sucking turn into a significantly more forceful invasion in only a couple of seconds; half a minute more and they're kissing almost roughly. Then Sherlock utilises his superior height and weight and practically shakes John out of his T-shirt.

 

“What's the point of coming to my bed clothed, you imbecile?” Sherlock mutters, sucking at John's neck. Considering how often John rubs it, Sherlock has the fairly sound theory that he has an erogenous zone there.

 

“You too... f-fuck...” John tries to grab the edge of Sherlock's T-shirt, but can't: he bends his head back and moans softly. Yes, a bull's eye. At least an eight, perhaps even nine, further experiments necessary.

 

“You started it,” Sherlock notes. With a sense of loss tears he himself away from John and quickly removes his own clothes. And now boxers... neck – a distracting manoeuvre, then a shoulder - the right one (the left he'll look at the next time, when it's light)... nipples? No, bad idea; John tenses up, and not in a good way. Pity: feeling the soft tissue under his tongue was rather pleasant. To cling more tightly, to press closer... Fine, there's plenty of time for that later. Sherlock rubs his face to his friend's stomach, inhaling the familiar, but a lot stronger smell now; he wants to groan, wants to laugh, to bury himself under John's skin and stay there; he wants to climb on top of him and kiss him again, take those thin lips between his teeth, taste John on his tongue – and then he does, without hesitation. No method to his actions, though.

 

John groans into his mouth and tries to say something – Sherlock isn't terribly bothered: he's not protesting, is he? No, John's definitely not protesting: thrusting his hips to meet Sherlock's, whispering something, his hands stroking Sherlock's back. And his hands are sure, strong - a peculiar contrast to the helpless trembling of his shoulders, the surrender of his head, bent backwards as far as it can go. The sight of it hits Sherlock right into the centre of his wildly beating heart.

 

And now for the one particular erogenous zone on a male body stimulation of which will get the same results each and every time...

 

Yes. That was a ten.

 

“Sh-Sherlock,” John gasps, clasping Sherlock's hair.

 

“Shh.” He lets the rock-like hardness out of his mouth and licks his lips. “I have to admit that I'm not terribly experienced at this, so unless you really want me to bite you...”

 

“Too much talk. And too much distance,” John says, panting. “I can live without a blowjob this first time. Come here.”

 

And the curious thing is, John is right. Or more right than Sherlock. This is better: pressing his whole body to John's, kissing his face (eyelids, nose, cheeks, chin), struggling to cope with John's hot breath on his neck and ear lobe (“Tickles, John!”), trying to get closer, closer, and even closer, as if (why as if?) everything that has ever mattered in this world is the space (or more precisely the lack of thereof) between their entwined bodies.

 

John's fingers are around Sherlock's member and he can't breathe: he's almost forgotten how it feels to have someone else's hand on it, not your own; someone he's–

 

Sentiment: a dangerous ground. The edge of the cliff. What they're creating here, though: through the touch, sliding of skin against skin, through the sighs and soft moans, clenched teeth, and their irregular breathing, is far more than just emotions. Together they're creating a joint space which can only have one name – sanctuary. A refuge.

 

Having spilled all over John's hand, Sherlock feels peace. Complete and absolute. And when John finishes, panting and muttering something touchingly corny into his neck, Sherlock suddenly realises that he's happy.

 

 

 

Sherlock doesn't share John's opinion on hospital visits. Mycroft can't appreciate human companionship now, but even if he could, Sherlock would prefer to deny him the pleasure.

John, however, has always had the silliest ideas about the nature of duty, and in the current circumstances Sherlock prefers to compromise. Besides, what he can't admit even to John is that as soon as he crosses the threshold of the medical facility he starts feeling the pull towards his brother's room as if drawn by a magnet.

 

If John found out about it he'd probably pull his lips into a polite smile and say, “You've never liked rules, have you?” Or perhaps he wouldn't smile. Perhaps he would sympathise – what a waste of emotion.

 

Sherlock hasn't been to see Mycroft once since his hospitalisation. Until today. It's their first visit since their fight and the new balance they've found. Perhaps that is the reason that Sherlock feels the need to change the established rules. Or maybe he just has poor impulse control. They say it's quite common among sociopaths.

 

It isn't difficult to slip off John's radar while he's talking to Mycroft's doctor, nor is sneaking into his brother's room. It's a high-class institution with attentive staff, but the soft carpet muffles his steps and even the most competent nurse needs to leave their post some time.

 

Mycroft, naturally, is lying still, and, naturally, doesn't look anything like himself. He hasn't woken up in the six months that have passedsince the attack; it had been stupid to think otherwise. He's much thinner: intravenous nutrition works wonders, no diet can compete with that.

 

If your memory is perfect along with your logic, sometimes it may be difficult to distinguish between the past and the present. Sherlock is looking at a man, stretched out on the hospital bed - pale, with a lax, expressionless face, but seeing a dishevelled boy crying in the corner of their nursery. Back then Sherlock had been too small to understand why he'd been crying, now, though... The memory is returning in pieces, torn and dusty from being stored away for such a long time.

 

Is it important? John once told told him that children can cry for thousands of reasons.

 

The door opens and a nurse (about thirty, divorced, a young son, lives near-by, comes to work on a bike) comes in, glances at him. Fear. Pupils dilated. Of course. Slaves are not supposed to be here at all, let alone without their master.

 

“On your knees,” she says quickly and his knees obediently hit the floor before he figures out what to do.

 

Automatically, a trained response. With a grim satisfaction he tells himself that his body is once more obedient, that the tension of the past several days, when he was close to a breakdown, has almost entirely disappeared.

 

The nurse's fingers trail his collar and clasp the tag.

 

“What are you doing here?” she asks sternly. “Where is your master? Strangers are not allowed in here.”

 

“He'll be here shortly,” Sherlock replies. “He's talking to the doctor.”

 

“What do you know, sir.” She turns to the supine Mycroft. “I'm glad you have visitors at least.”

 

No longer paying Sherlock any attention, she glances at the readings on the machines and copies them onto the chart. Then she starts checking the equipment, wiping it clean, changing the air tubes... That's how John finds them: Sherlock in the corner on his knees, the nurse fixing a plastic bag of parenteral nutrition to an IV stand. 

 

“Get up,” he says, having quickly assessed the situation.

 

The movement isn't very fluid: either his knees went numb surprisingly fast or he's dizzy for some reason. Immaterial. The nurse turns around and looks at them curiously.

 

“Are you a visitor, sir?” she asks.

 

“Yes,” he replies drily. “Did my slave do something?”

 

“Oh no, everything's fine.” The nurse smiles at him. “They're just not supposed to be here, you know?”

 

“It won't happen again.” He shakes his head once and turning to Sherlock adds, “Leave and wait in the corridor.”

 

Already in the doorway Sherlock hears the nurse say, “I'm so sorry, sir. I know I took some liberties with your slave, but...”

 

Sherlock doesn't hear John's answer.

 

Staring at the carpeting on the floor, Sherlock remembers why Mycroft was crying: he'd dropped father's globe, an antique, the wood had cracked and as a punishment he'd been forbidden to go outside for a week. It had seemed unbearable to him to sit in the house in such sunny summer weather, just at the beginning of the holidays.

 

 

The incident was a simple one and in Sherlock's opinion not worth thinking of, but when they reach their Baker Street home, John explodes. He's pacing the room, taking turns to rub his temples and clench his fists.

 

“Sherlock, it's... it's unbearable, I can't... Let's just leave, and to hell with everything! The court's prohibition on travelling expires in two months and then...”

 

“And go where?” Lying on the sofa, Sherlock is trying to keep his composure, but something is preventing that, something is bothering and irritating him and he has no idea what it is. The image of Mycroft, lying immobile on his cot seems to be distracting him and Sherlock doesn't want to think about his brother. “Slavery in the USNA is even more severe than here. Political asylum with the Soviets? Slavery is forbidden only on paper there - their 'citizens' run from there _to us_. I seriously don't think it would be the best solution. Asia is divided into influence zones...”

 

“We could go anywhere, damn you! To the Amazon jungles! To Kenya, join the rebellion!”

 

Sherlock pauses. Then, visibly composed, adds, “Just as always, you're being dramatic.” He ignores John's incredulous 'I am?'. “My current situation has its advantages. At least I don't have to look imbeciles in the eye while telling them that they are imbeciles. I can just delegate all the communication to you.”

 

“That's what you've always done.”

 

“And now it's also endorsed by the law. It's actually somewhat comforting.”

 

“We don't actually have to go far. We can just... move to another town where nobody knows us! Cardiff for example. We'll get fake documents, remove the tattoo. The traces of the collar will disappear within a couple of weeks. Bloody hell, Sherlock, you just have to gain ten pounds and get a buzz cut, and nobody would recognize you even in London if you apply your acting skills!”

 

“And I would have to conduct myself differently,” Sherlock mutters, “to pass as someone else.”

 

“It's still better than how it is now! You could even behave worse if it makes you feel better. Actually, you'd been acting as a decent person for quite a while before the... before the arrest.”

 

“And you'd really go with me?” Still staring at the ceiling, Sherlock furrows his brow, watching John from the corner of his eye. “You'd leave your name, service medals, your medical licence, and never see your family and friends again?”

 

There's a short pause and Sherlock is opening his mouth to deliver 'you see?' when John interrupts.

 

“I think we've already had a chance to establish that I'd do a lot more for you.”

 

John's tone is unusually soft, and this is exactly the thing that helps the dark and scorching hot something in Sherlock's chest, which he's been fiercely suppressing for so long, to burst into life.

 

“I won't let this vociferous, brainless rabble drive me out of my city!” he growls leaping up from the sofa. “All my life I've lived as I wish, and I'm not going to allow anyone to force us into laying low, going underground, hiding from a society that isn't even worth it that you rack your brains over it, much less me! Especially when I haven't even paid back the people who've driven us into this trap!”

 

“What?” Despite being enraged just a minute ago, John winces, even pales. “But Moriarty is dead! He killed himself when he found out that you knew about his organisation, his plans and his secret code, didn't he? I saw the body. And his network can be unravelled from somewhere else, right? You told me that if you haven't found it in London thus far, it means it's not in London...”

 

“Moriarty is dead, yes, but the person who helped him is still out there,” Sherlock says. “The one who took Mycroft down at the same time with me. The one who arranged my being accused of fraud and attempted fratricide. The one that instilled the idea about suicide into Moriarty's consciousness, to mask the connection between them.”

 

“Hm...” John pauses, apparently digesting what he's just heard and trying to calm down. Then he continues, “But this person, whoever he is, is probably somewhere high up in the government?” His voice is soft. “Sherlock, I... I hate to say this, but is there anything we can actually do in this situation? And it's not as if Mycroft actually needs it. Grown-ups don't wake up from a coma after several months – it's all TV show fairy tales. He can't even breathe by himself.”

 

This is the moment where everything in Sherlock's mind slots into place. What he's been trying to forget about the hospital: the colour of the carpet under his knees, the polite and competent nurse, taking the tubes out of Mycroft's throat... Now the Baker Street flat is falling away, he's looking at the ancient city as if from the stratosphere, down at the bizarre loops of the Thames like a thin thread woven between the city blocks, and at the web... the still existing web that's pulling everything into its centre.

 

The freezing cold of deep space, the icy chills of a new-found awareness paralyses his body; a queasy feeling is pulling at him with a hellish force, pulling him down towards mere mortals. Frantic, nervous energy pierces his body like a lightning. Mistakes happen. Even geniuses make them, but realising them gives you an opportunity to rectify them.

 

“John!” Sherlock grabs his shoulders and shakes him. Then, remembering that he doesn't have to hold back any more, he succumbs to the urge and fiercely kisses John on the lips. “We've caught hell, John,” he continues, turning away and feeling that despite of everything (or even because of it) his lips are spreading into a wide grin. “I've been unbelievably stupid. It's because of me that we are in it up to our ears.”

 

“And that is new, how?” John manages to say it almost calmly.

 

“Later!” Sherlock growls and practically pushes John out of the door, throwing his jacket after him. “Take a walk, I need to think – our lives depend on it. And get some nicotine patches!”

 

When the door closes behind John, Sherlock is struck by the idea that the best way to defend the fortress is to launch a counter attack. Taking refuge is good, but the time for hiding has passed. Actually, Sherlock doesn't spend any meaningful amount of time thinking about the theory of strategic warfare. He collapses on the sofa and concentrates on analysing their practical options.


	3. Smoke and Mirrors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know there is no excuse, but I'm going to apologise anyway.  
> I'm sorry it took me so long.  
> But on the brighter side - I bet most of you didn't think there even would be an update, right? Surprise!! :)  
> Anyway, the main plot is here. The last chapter is epilogue, so don't be afraid to read this now, even if it takes me another year to updae, there will be no huge cliff to hang off from, so no worries. You might want to reread the first two chapters hough. :)
> 
> Dear readers that have subscribed: THAN YOU for sticking with me! And triple thank you to those who poked me and motivated me to finish. I hope the epiloge will be quicker. I told myself that I'm not allowed to dedicate myself to Avengers realm and write Hawkeye before I finish this. So I have motivation.
> 
> And one more time: THANK YOU! :)

***

An hour later, when John returns from his walk with nicotine patches, a bottle of paracetamol and an anti-inflammatory ointment (a minimal set necessary in case Sherlock's thinking becomes so intense that any cohabitation in the flat automatically becomes an irritant), the living room is utterly silent.

 

Sherlock is sitting on the sofa, his fingers steepled under his chin, his head thrown back and his legs stretched out in front of him. The pose contains so much hidden strength, nervous energy and, at the same time, adolescent vulnerability that John feels his heart constrict. It tends to keep happening lately, this involuntary movement of his heart muscles, when he looks at Sherlock. John tries to fight the tendency since this is one of the reasons why Sherlock accused him of hypocrisy. Besides, heart problems in his situation are rather superfluous. What would happen to Sherlock if he...

 

Right now though, Sherlock's irregular behaviour is more or less understandable: he always behaves strangely after visiting Mycroft. John wouldn't make them go if he didn't know that no one else visits the elder Holmes. No one at all. And it's weird if no one visits you; John wouldn't want to be in his position.

 

“John, you're back.” Sherlock turns to him. “That's good. I need your help.”

 

“Whatever you need.” John carefully closes the door behind him.

 

“No.” Sherlock waves with his hand. “Don't do that.”

 

He leaps up from the sofa and, reopening the door, walks past John into their cosy stairwell, with its warm lamp light and a vase of artificial irises. Narrowing his eyes, he peers down the stairs.

 

“John, do you trust me?”

 

“As I trust myself,” John answers without thinking.

 

“Good.” Sherlock pats him on the shoulder, and then, as if remembering something, touches his lips to John's for a brief moment. “One more thing: if it's necessary – it shouldn't be, but if it is – call an ambulance only as a last resort, all right? And don't act out of character with them: I'm your slave, you're the master, nothing more.”

 

Then Sherlock takes a step back, eyes the staircase one more time...

 

“Don't!” John shouts, darting after Sherlock. Too late - his fingers close only a tenth of an inch above Sherlock's shoulder as he tumbles towards the ground floor. John can only watch helplessly as his friend and partner somersaults down, his arms protecting his head.

 

And indeed, he is somersaulting, almost with a stuntman-like agility, landing at the foot of the stairs in a dramatic sprawl, as if waiting for a film director to shout 'Cut!'

 

John doesn't stop to admire the view. Forgetting how to breathe, he scrambles down the stairs himself; his knees hitting the floor next to Sherlock, one hand checking for a pulse in the loon's neck and the other pressing down on his shoulder, lest the maniac try to rise.

 

“Stay down, you damn lunatic! What if you’ve broken something?”

 

“Unlikely,” Sherlock snaps, but then he starts giggling. Soft, happy chuckles that emerge when adrenalin makes you dizzy and the bloodstream is full of endorphins.

 

Mrs Hudson, panting, dashes out of her kitchen. “Sherlock! John! Boys, are you all right?” 

 

“The moron fell down the stairs,” John answers the old lady. Perhaps he's a bit abrupt, but is he really to blame given the circumstances?

 

Sherlock begins snickering again.

 

“John!” Mrs Hudson's gasps, her voice trembling. “Aren't you... How can you... I thought you...”

 

“You thought what?” John turns to her, surprised. “I mean, I'm sorry for being rude.”

 

“What did you do to make him...” the landlady begins, but then Sherlock pushes John's hand away and sits up. Inhaling noisily, Mrs Hudson peers into his face. “Oh, so you didn't... You really just fell down, Sherlock?”

 

“Of course, Mrs Hudson,” he replies almost merrily in a fit of coughing.

 

“Oh, but I thought...” Guiltily, she glances away. “They always say such things on the tellys...”

 

This is the moment John suddenly realises what Mrs Hudson had thought and feels light-headed. He closes his eyes and takes a couple of deep breaths. How the hell did it get to this point? He’d only tried to do the what’s best. 

 

A sharp, almost childish resentment rises up in him, and bitterly he wonders why everybody – yes, everybody, even Sherlock to some extent, – seems to suspect him of having less than noble intentions. As if he asked for any of it. As if he'd somehow arranged for Sherlock to become his slave. As if he's...

 

“ _Doctor_ , I seem to have sprained my wrist,” Sherlock's voice interrupts his resentful thoughts.

 

Upon opening his eyes, John sees Sherlock touching his left wrist with the fingers of his right hand and wincing.

 

“A little help?”

 

“Fuck you!” John snaps. “Put some ice on it and we're going to A&E.”

 

“Only as a last resort, remember?”

 

“You should have thought about it earlier! All right. Just let me...” John examines Sherlock's fingers. “Does that hurt? What about now?”

 

“Tolerable.”

 

“It's not sprained, you faker. Probably just pulled a ligament. Put some ice on it and let it rest.”

 

“But I can't play with my wrist like this!”

 

“You'll survive. Unbutton your shirt.”

 

“What, here?” Sherlock snorts.

 

“Yes, here. I'm not dragging you upstairs if you've broken a rib.”

 

“I'll be in, if you need anything,” Mrs Hudson cuts in, and her tone betrays growing amusement with the scene unfolding before her eyes.

 

In the end John has to deal with the shirt himself, but there are no broken ribs, and nothing more serious than some bruises, a couple of bumps and a skinned knee. No concussion either, thankfully.

 

“You should get an X-ray,” John mutters, helping his partner climb the stairs.

 

“Tomorrow,” Sherlock relents after a pause. “I can work with that.”

 

“Fine. Will you now tell me why the acrobatics?”

 

By this time they reached the upper floor. Sherlock turns around, grips John by the shoulders and says, “John. Not five minutes ago you said that you trusted me.”

 

“I'm not back-pedalling, but-”

 

“It's very important.” Sherlock stresses the word 'important'. “It's about...” He hesitates. “It has to do with Moriarty's network. I need you to behave naturally and you're not an especially gifted actor, but you are excellent at suppressing your emotions. Suppressed confusion and anger will benefit us in this situation. All right?”

 

Looking into those piercing, grey eyes in the dim light of their stairwell, John nods almost against his will. Sherlock sighs in relief and leans in, rubbing his cheek to John's in such an unexpected but natural display of trust that John feels something in his chest contract and then leap. He raises his arms to hug Sherlock, but the detective's already gone.

 

“Excellent,” the detective says, reaches the sofa in two strides and throws himself onto it. “Now bring me today's newspapers. And tea, please.”

 

 

Sherlock announces he has no intentions of going to bed. At first, John tries to persuade him, then throws in the towel and goes upstairs – the greater the distance between Sherlock’s awful howling violin and his sleepy ears, the better. If Sherlock wants sex, he can get it (meaning: find John) anywhere.

 

Curiously though, he doesn't hear the violin. Instead he hears some conspicuous rustling, moving around and dull thumps. Then after some tossing and turning around in bed, he returns downstairs and to his surprise finds Sherlock... cleaning.

 

Sherlock, with his bruises, sore wrist, and probably still fuzzy head, cleaning out the rubbish from their living room, putting away books on criminology, packing box after box.

 

“What are you doing?” John asks, stunned.

 

“Why aren't you asleep?” Sherlock looks at him askance. “Need your sleeping pills? Tea?”

 

“Would you care to explain your sudden passion for tidying up our living space?”

 

“The passion for tidiness is not mine, it's yours,” Sherlock truthfully, although also confusingly, explains. “Subterfuge. It has to looks like it's your living space shared by me, not the other way around.”

 

John can't hold back his snort. It's true, so far it has indeed seemed to be 'the other way around' and it's nice of Sherlock to admit it.

 

“You think they are going to check it?” he asks. “You didn't think it important last time.”

 

Actually, the bailiff has already been to check on them once – a standard procedure when it comes to newly converted slaves. Sherlock was silent, stared at the floor and and behaved; John spoke to the official civilly and even poured her tea. All things considered they passed the check-up well.

 

“This time we need to make a different impression.” Sherlock waves his hand to express his disagreement. “Do you think we should remove the skull?”

 

“No, leave it. I've always liked it,” John replies and goes to make himself a cuppa. “Let's not overdo it. Otherwise we might as well move my stuff into your bedroom and leave you on a cot near the door.”

 

“That would work,” Sherlock contemplates. “Good thinking, John! You have a wonderful ability to play along without having a clue as to what's going on.”

 

“What? No!” John exclaims. “Don’t you think that would be going too far?”

 

“Yes, of course,” the detective agrees indifferently. “I didn’t explain it to you, did I.”

 

“I'm talking about the cot!”

 

“Oh. Yes, you're probably right. The timing.”

 

With this mysterious phrase Sherlock continues cleaning. How happy John would have been to see that only a half a year ago! And how deeply he felt the injustice of the situation now. Wrong motivation. Wrong time.

 

“Can it wait until tomorrow?” John pleads softly. “Until you're less sore?”

 

“No.” Sherlock cuts him off. “I suggest you take your pills. Half the usual dose; you're tired enough for that, and tomorrow I'll need you at your best.”

 

“I'm working tomorrow,” John reminds him. “And we are going to A&E.”

 

“Exactly,” Sherlock utters almost softly. “You're working tomorrow and we are going to A&E. After that – The Golden Ram, where you'll have a pint or two. And then a couple of other places. It's for a case.” 

 

John doesn't notice when, but somehow Sherlock has already reached the bathroom, taken the pills out of the cupboard and is now handing them to John along with a glass of water. Mechanically, John swallows them, walks to the bedroom (Sherlock's), and only when dragging the unusually cool blanket over his head does he realise that although The Golden Ram is not an upper-class pub, it's still far from ordinary: slave owners bring their slaves there, but they're not allowed in. Is Sherlock planning on wearing a disguise?

 

 

Sherlock doesn't plan on wearing a disguise. They go to the A&E before John's shift begins: Sherlock's posture is tense, he walks slightly behind John, instead of next to him – which has now become customary, but usually he’d go on talking and generally behaving as if the pavement were narrow and it was too crowded. Today, though, Sherlock is silent and even keeps his eyes humbly on the ground. John has to constantly turn round to check if he's still there.

 

Near the hospital Sherlock suddenly says, “If you allow, Master, I can... go in by myself. You go on to the clinic, don't trouble yourself.”

 

His tone is strange, making John cringe internally. Sherlock doesn't speak entirely like a slave, but not as a free man either. His voice is hanging on a thin thread, words free-falling off it and hovering in the cold air forming a spiralling staircase into the abyss. Hell, if John didn't know it was just a game, he’d...

 

He wants to insist, go in with Sherlock and make sure that he gets his X-ray – the doctor on duty might forgo it with a slave – but then gives in. To hell with Sherlock – he’s not a child, he's perfectly capable of pressuring the medical staff into doing his will even from his position. Sherlock cherishes his hands, he needs them for the violin; so John just nods and goes to work.

 

John gave up looking for a permanent position a long time ago. As a result, he has no social security, but as a substitute GP he is well-paid, always in demand and it's less time-consuming than regular shifts. Combined with his army pension he has just enough time and income to run around after Sherlock and he doesn’t need more.

 

He, of course, would need more if he had a family, but Sherlock is correct: with this new twist of fate the idea of a family is forgotten and buried. At times John vaguely regrets it, but it’s more out of habit. After he woke with Sherlock's weight on his good shoulder the day before yesterday, he stopped regretting it entirely. Hell, what's there even to think about? Even before they became lovers John was ready deny himself a lot for Sherlock. It's not actually about cuddles in bed for him – it's about feeling alive, the askance looks, the crooked grins over a laptop that make John's heart stop and feel wonder as if on the first day of creation.

 

Besides, working as a general practitioner is incredibly boring.

 

While mulling over the advantages of their living arrangement – even in their disgusting new circumstances, which John had no idea how long Sherlock might yet tolerate (don't think about it, don't get distracted!) – he somehow pulls through the shift. His anxiety about Sherlock doesn't let up – what’s he doing, is he sitting at home or has he dashed off somewhere?

 

But no, it turns out Sherlock's at home; he's vegging out on the couch, his wrist in a fresh white bandage and staring at the ceiling – everything’s just as usual. He reports that they took the X-ray and that there's no sprain.

 

“Everything went all right?” John asks.

 

“Fine.” Sherlock smiles sardonically. “The trainee nurse gave me some vitamins.”

 

“You don't look that young,” John snorts, momentarily realising Sherlock means the sweet colourful pills that nurses generally kept in their cabinets for the youngest patients. 

 

“Yes, the nice young lady got slightly confused. Seemed it was her first experience with a personal slave. The nurse on duty looked at her askance, so in her defence she said that at the vet's, where she takes her cat, they always give it sweets at the end of the visit.”

 

John freezes, still in his jacket.

 

“I'll write a monograph on the impact of social stereotypes on professional skills,” Sherlock continues in the same calm voice, “and you're going to publish it.”

 

“Whatever you say,” John replies and finally takes off the jacket.

 

“That, you shouldn't have done.” Sherlock hurls himself out of the sofa and is at the door virtually in two leaps. “I told you: The Golden Ram awaits us. It's for a case.”

 

 

John could do without visiting The Golden Ram. He has been there before and he wouldn't say that he especially liked it there. An ordinary pub, but the beer is more expensive and appetisers generally better. And there’s even a TV set suspended above the bar.

 

Since the clientèle is rather respectable and the door displays a sign with the crossed out collar, just outside, they have a cage for personal slaves. As far as John remembers, for the most part it's empty, but today there is a young dark-haired female slave pacing in the chill.

 

She's rather tall, nice-looking, but with a double chin – in short: not a pleasure slave. The tattooed cheek doesn't add to her attractiveness either. It is obvious that she's been waiting for a while and that the shapeless coat, warm gloves and even the scarf tied on top of the collar (against The Dress Code Regulation) don’t seem to be helping any more.

 

“Perhaps...” John starts, glancing uncertainly between the cage and the half-open pub door, with a dim golden light and soft chatter coming through. “Look… You know, down the street...”

 

There is another pub down the street, a bit more tolerant on the equality scale; no cage, slaves can wait inside and no one would even look at them askance.

 

“Don't even think about it,” Sherlock mutters quietly, so as not to be heard, but the cold, assertive tone makes John instantly feel better. “It has to be Golden Ram. Try to stay for forty minutes at least. Understand?”

 

“All right.” John nods.

 

He knows that if Sherlock considers himself on a stake-out, he can endure a lot more serious cold than a five or six below zero for even two or three hours without any damage to his health. And judging by his predatory, detached expression, Sherlock is currently indeed on a stake-out.

 

The waiter welcoming them at the entrance opens the cage and closes it after Sherlock. Stepping over the threshold, John hears the friendly greeting of the chilled girl.

 

“Hi! My name's Stacy. What's yours?”

 

She has an American accent. Not surprising: a lot of slaves are imported from the Americas.

 

The beer isn't helping. Blearily he stares at the TV screen, making a conscious effort not to look outside. He doesn't always succeed – and glances in the direction of the large windows: Sherlock is standing stock-still, arms crossed over his chest, his expression stoic. The stoicism seems to be dictated by Stacy's behaviour: she's pacing back and forth inside the cage, clapping her hands to get warm, and judging by the clouds of air puffs visible around her mouth, constantly chattering. It obviously irritates Sherlock a great deal. Surprising really that it still hasn't incited a rude remark out of him to cut her off.

 

For a moment John even has this batty idea that Stacy must be the purpose of their outing. But what kind of interest could a young female slave be to Sherlock? Perhaps it’s her owner?

 

John has actually spotted the said owner. More precisely, owners: a sturdy man of John's age and a woman about a decade younger, about seven months pregnant. She has an eccentric charm hanging around her neck – a key chain to a slave's collar: a symbol of status, obviously. A husband's gift for the birth of a first-born.

 

They are watching a game, the woman is rooting for the South American team, the man is listlessly sipping his beer. Momentarily John feels an intense dislike towards the couple despite the fact that overall they seemed quite an amicable people. The woman is actually a notable beauty, not surprising she braved purchasing a young slave.

 

Finally they stand. The man helps his companion into a coat and they walk through the door discussing the game. The attendant opens the cage and the girl rushes after them, waving Sherlock her goodbye. They get into an Audi – like the one Mycroft used to have, no more nor less, but blue – and speed off. Couldn't they have let her sit in a car while entertaining themselves?

 

John peers at the clock. Thirty-five minutes have passed. It's time to draw the line, he decides; it will take a few minutes to pay, then the barman will get him the change...

 

“Your slave?” the barman asks, nodding towards the window with envious respect. “A professional probably?”

 

“Yes,” John replies briskly. “He assists me at work.”

 

“So what's the rate?”

 

“Depends on the field.”

 

“I'm thinking of buying,” the man confides. ”In the long run it'll be cheaper than an employee, and it would add the prestige too. My woman hates slaves though. Convinced herself that males are all thieves and murderers, and she wouldn't tolerate a girl, you understand.” The barman chuckles, a deep belly laugh. “Yours is quite skinny though. You're military, right?”

 

“Former.”

 

“Right. I can always tell - due to my line of work. They wouldn't try to take you bare-handed though, would they now? What I'm actually thinking is - they'd be idiots to go against their betters unless there’s an actual reason - like being tortured for no reason, right?”

 

John smiles tightly, takes the change and leaves.

 

“Found out anything?” he asks Sherlock on their way home.

 

“Price fluctuation on baby foods for the last three months,” he answers shortly. “Irrelevant. I'll try to forget it as soon as possible.”

 

“Why did we even come here?” John inquires, his fists clenching of their own volition, his patience almost run out. What he really wants is to punch the closest frozen wall and the hell with his fingers.

 

“Important,” is all Sherlock says.

 

'I'm afraid I'll get used to it,' John thinks with growing feeling of despondence in his chest. 'I'll get used to talking about you as if you're a thing. I'll get used to you as my property. Not you as a person, not as Sherlock Holmes – I'll never think of you as less than what you are. But to accept that your body is a commodity... decide that it is quite normal... to live it – no, I can't do it´.

 

John knows that he's overreacting and that it will pass. During their walk home John mentally takes apart and puts together a Browning once and a Sig Sauer twice. It helps.

 

 

 

Once home, though, John blows up. At first he manages to hold it together: puts on a kettle and the water for pasta. The pint he all but forced down at the pub has ruined his appetite; he doesn't even want tea, but Sherlock spent too long in the cold - he needs it.

 

A simple recipe: pasta, fresh tomatoes, white beans... Strangely enough there are (relatively) fresh tomatoes in the fridge. Two tomatoes, to be exact. But they're out of beans, so John decides to pop in to Mrs Hudson's for something canned – and finds the old lady in quite an odd mood.

 

He returns to their flat without beans, barely holding on to his temper, and starts with punching the door frame.

 

“Sherlock, what is the meaning of this?” he asks in a quiet voice.

 

Sherlock raises his eyes from his newspaper he's been glued to since stepping into the flat, and wipes his face of any expression.

 

“Ah. Mrs Hundson told you we're moving.”

 

“Moving. How about running it past me first? Or, I don't know, at least giving me a heads up?”

 

“I was going to. Today. Once your adrenalin levels went back down.”

 

John takes several deep breaths. Through his nose. Then he tries to relax. Then he counts to ten. Finally when he feels less like beating the obnoxious idiot into a bloody pulp he talks. Slowly.

 

“Sherlock. Would you stop taking me for a bloody fool? What the hell are you trying to do? Why the falling down the stairs? The demonstrative sitting in a cage? And the A&E visit...” Suddenly it dawns on him. “You did that in A&E too! Made a spectacle of yourself, acted all slave-like? And you sent me away, so I wouldn't see! Did you humiliate yourself in front of them? The vitamins... Something even worse must have happened there or you wouldn't have told me about them, would you?” At this point John finally pieces it all together. “God, you're acting up on purpose, aren't you! For some damn reason you want to be seen as a real slave, and not just a slave, but a slave who's being abused by his master! Beats you, humiliates... That's why you've removed all your stuff from the living room. Am I right?”

 

Sherlock, being the horrible person that he is, has the audacity to nod approvingly. “Later than I anticipated, but you are interpreting the evidence correctly.”

 

“No, stop.” John feels himself go numb, rubs his forehead. “Stop. You’re talking rubbish. First, why the hell would you even need to seem like an abused slave, and second... Why do you need to do it inside the flat? Why the things... the talk about the cot near the door? You weren't joking, were you?”

 

“No, I wasn't.” Sherlock nods. “But the time hasn't come for that yet. It has to happen gradually.”

 

“What has to happen gradually?!” John barely keeps himself from shouting.

 

“You've already guessed it,” Sherlock utters coldly. “Don't pretend to be thicker than you are.”

 

John swallows and proceeds to rub his face with both hands. Everything blurs around him, the air swirls; nothing has any meaning any more and the refuge they had built together is crumbling down around them.

 

“You're trying to bag Moriarty's network,” John states listlessly. “You're trying to fool people who know you. Know about you. And about me. You are showing them that I've started treating you like a real slave... My God, Sherlock. No one will believe it! No one who knows us even the slightest bit... Or... do I really come across as such a bastard? That I could actually betray my only... No, Sherlock! This is too much.”

 

Sherlock meets his gaze. “You said you trusted me,” he says with a put-on calm. “Do you take it back?”

 

“Trust you, yes... But this – this... It's as if you... it's the worst sort of thing you could have…”

 

“John.” His name cuts off his incoherent babble. “You said that I want to be seen as a slave. But I am a slave. Legally. And will remain as such unless we do something.”

 

John feels like popped balloon; he's never felt this empty before. Not even during an anatomy exam when he had to identify an unfamiliar cavity in a skull.

 

Sherlock's nose and cheeks are still reddened from the cold. And his fingers. For some reason he’d dashed out without his gloves; maybe because he’d wanted to seem downright pitiful. Nevertheless, how you appear to people is one thing, but hypothermia, quite a real thing, is another. Of course, forty minutes in the London cold are not going to kill a healthy adult, but the shame and guilt for his own little grievances John suddenly feels is intense. 

 

“Sorry, I... wasn't thinking.”

 

“Self-deprecation and false modesty don't suit you,” Sherlock interrupts him again. “Other people don't see you as a bastard or a brute. On the contrary, you come across as sickeningly honorable; that is why we need to go to such ugly lengths to convince the respectable public. But you can do it - we'll do it together, I've thought everything through. Remember, you own me-” John jerks as if from a blow; these words sound very different outside the bedroom. “- and I own you. Two minuses make a plus, John. In the end, we will squash the enemy.”

 

“And free you?” John notices he's talking with an almost childlike intonation, like a child begging his mummy to tell him that death is not real.

 

“Free us both.” Sherlock nods. “And I hope not only us. But to achieve all that we'll have to do a lot. Are you with me on this?”

 

After a brief hesitation John nods. “But I want to know everything you can tell me,” he tells Sherlock firmly. “I don't want to go into it blind.”

 

“You can't act and the emotional authenticity-”

 

John cuts him off. “Everything you can tell me, Sherlock. Everything that I absolutely can't know, you keep to yourself, agreed? That you will tell me later.”

 

Slowly Sherlock nods.

 

John closes his eyes. The icy nausea is receding; the walls of the sanctuary were shaken, but they still stand. How long until they crumble?

 

“John.” There are warm hands are on John’s shoulders, Sherlock’s lips touching his ear. When did he rise from the armchair? John hadn't heard. “Don’t forget: I’m a genius and you are rather good at everything else. If anyone can do it, it's us.”

 

“Do what?” John bites his lip. “What are you trying to achieve by acting like a slave? Drawing them out with live bait?”

 

“Providing myself with an alibi and covering my tracks,” Sherlock all but snorts. “But I haven't told you that.”

 

During the night John wakes up because Sherlock is muttering. The muttering bursts into his own dream in the form of the roar of a capricious Land Rover engine (which all kinds of people take turns digging around in, all except for the actual mechanic who'd given up in the second week and is now filling out complaint forms and requests for the novelty to be replaced by something older, even if it runs on kerosene or oil, but is trustworthy). In the dream, Sergeant Willis is smiling and Corporal Andrews is coming towards them (two out of the bunch of people puttering around in the car's innards), waving around with a bundle of letters.

 

Squinting at the corporal, the sergeant asks, “Hey, doc, is it true what they say, that human guts are a tad more complicated?”

 

“No idea,” John answers quite truthfully. “I don't remember, but surgeons somehow manage.”

 

And then it suddenly turns out that John is indeed a surgeon, not a simple medic. In reality he'd had the usual officer contract, had some medical training in a civilian hospital in Belfast and then he'd already been trotting around with his platoon in the foothills of Hindu Kush. The only difference between him and an ordinary commando had been the green cross on his sleeve (which as opposed to the red cross does not offer any measure of protection). But in the dream it suddenly becomes clear that he did actually finish his surgical training and is now working in a field hospital, but in India, not in Afghanistan – because why else would the fresco of the goddess Kali with her multiple sets of arms be there?

 

Instead of the Land Rover or the operating table he now has an altar in front of him, and on this altar there's a familiar body. With an indescribable terror John realises that the patient's stomach cavity has already been opened and he, apparently, is expected to do something, but he has no idea how to operate. He lacks even the limited skills he had and can't recall a single Latin name for anything he sees. At this point Sherlock rises onto his elbows and looks at John with totally white, unseeing eyes. The lights are out now – no, there wasn’t any light to begin with, only the braziers in the corners – and in their treacherous reddish glow John can see the bloody black mess of the ripped-out guts with a piece of the leather collar sticking out of it. 

 

John wants to wake up, but can't, because Sherlock starts speaking, and he speaks in a way that he's never spoken awake – with a deep, pleading intonation.

 

“It's a mistake,” he says, “it's a mistake, you misunderstood. It wasn't me! Let me go! John, where are you?”

 

“I'm here!” John exclaims and wakes up.

 

Then he immediately has to wake Sherlock who, heavily panting, is tossing around in bed. John is ready to be flung halfway across the room, but it isn't a post-traumatic nightmare, just an ordinary one, and so, when Sherlock wakes, he just jerks and stills.

 

“What's the matter?” John asks. “A nightmare?”

 

“In a manner of speaking,” Sherlock replies in an absolutely normal voice and starts getting out of the bed.

 

“Where are you going?” John asks, grabbing his very solid shoulder, still hot from sleep.

 

He doesn't want to let go, he wants to bury his nose between Sherlock's neck and shoulder, slide his palms over the hard planes of Sherlock's back, gradually calming down his own racing heart – in short, do all those normal things people do when waking up from a bad dream next to their significant other.

 

“I think I'll read something,” Sherlock says. “By the way, there should be a letter for me tomorrow. Could you deliver it somewhere?”

 

“Of course,” John replies, sighing and leaning back against the pillows. “Have I ever refused you?”

 

“Oh, plenty of times.”

 

A strained chuckle comes from the other side of the bedroom. Then the door creaks and John is alone.

 

 

The anticipated letter, indeed, comes the next day, and straight after work, with barely a bite to eat, John is on his way to the address Sherlock has given him. He's almost not surprised to discover a seemingly decent and not at all expensive private dental clinic there. It's obviously a busy day; the young girl at the reception desk asks him to leave his number for them to get back to him. John has received strict instructions to hand the letter over to the recipient in person, though.

 

The letter itself, in John's opinion, looks very strange: the envelope is of an unfamiliar yellowish paper, covered in fancy colourful stamps; the sender's address is written in symbols that look more ornamental than meaningful. At first glance John thinks it's Arabic, but later realises it must be Sanskrit. He even raised it to his nose when Sherlock wasn't looking - for a moment he'd thought that it smelled of spices, tea and exotic fruit. Like greetings from childhood: from books about the treasures of Maharajahs and pirates.

 

In the end, after waving the envelope in front of the receptionist's nose, John succeeds in having Dr Desai retrieved directly from the room where she was treating a patient. The other two occupants of the waiting room (a plump elderly lady in spectacles and a middle-aged man in a good suit, a handkerchief pressed to his cheek) send him glares that are not entirely friendly.

 

John expects Dr Rohan Desai to be a proud-looking Indian with an aquiline profile. The name Rohan somehow leads him to think about ferocious horsemen and archers. Instead, he gets a short, curvaceous woman, not especially dark and not very obviously Indian even. Seeing the letter in his hand, she pales even more, bites out, 'Come with me,' and leads him into a smallish room, which is apparently a cross between a kitchen (there's an electric stove and a loudly humming refrigerator) and a tech support station.

 

“Where did you get this?” Dr Desai asks without any preamble, deliberately glancing at the letter in his hand.

 

“Received by post,” John answers as instructed.

 

“What do you want in return?” she continues in the same tension-filled voice.

 

That’s interesting. Sherlock just told him to deliver the letter, never mentioning a price.

 

“Well, a week ago I would have asked for your phone number and dinner, but now that the circumstances have changed, I'm forced to say nothing.” John smiles, hoping it's coming out charming. He hasn't had much practice lately.

 

“Are you serious?”

 

“No, it was just my sad attempt at making a joke. Except that I really would have asked you out were I not… busy. A gentleman never jokes about such things. But the letter is yours.” He holds out the envelope.

 

She takes it as if in disbelief, promptly opens it and runs her eyes over it right there, in front of John. Then she raises her eyes to him, looking at him as if he'd bought her the treasures of all the rajahs of India.

 

“Do you know what it says?” she asks, almost as if this were an interrogation.

 

“No idea,” John answers honestly. “I was just asked to deliver it.”

 

“Who asked you? A tall, pale man with dark hair?”

 

“Yes.” John nods. “He's my... friend.”

 

“Not many people would dare to call a slave their fiend.” The doctor's honest eyes stare at him intently.

 

Apparently, she knows. Well, Sherlock, why didn't you say something?

 

“I'm his owner,” John decides to tell her. “In the eyes of the law.”

 

There's an almost imperceptible furrow on her brow, as if she wanted to frown, but reconsidered.

 

“Interesting,” she utters. “About that dinner? Why don't you come for tea instead?” It doesn't look like she’s flirting though, and she continues, “Bring your friend.” She writes her address on a piece of paper.

 

 

The next time Sherlock wakes in the middle of the night from a nightmare, he finally deigns to admit that something is wrong.

 

“I have this dream sometimes...” he says in a distant tone. “It started after I talked to Dr Desai.”

 

By this time John already knows the doctor's family history, about her brother who's now apparently a eunuch at the same harem he was originally sold to. It appears that Sherlock asked an old acquaintance from India to convince the eunuch to write a letter to his sister. The acquaitance’s letter arrived before the eunuch's: the first one relayed that the poor man seemed quite happy with his fate, tasting the usual plentiful fruit of the harem's wealth and even expressed pity towards his sister who has to earn her living with hard work.

 

“What dream?” John asks with a strange, irrational, and uncharacteristic to him, feeling of foreboding.

 

He's had a similar feeling before – a feeling that the next second a bullet will fly just over his shoulder – but usually it was instantaneous, like a hammer to his head, tying his insides into a knot and making him leap forwards, aside or backwards. This time though, the premonition was like a tiny ice shard stuck somewhere deep inside his psyche, somewhat similar to a half forgotten childhood memory about sneaking into the cinema at night.

 

“A dream where I...” Sherlock breaks off, waves his hand as if to wave the matter off, then sighs and rubs his neck. “I'm a child there. Maybe ten or twelve years old. In real life I was actually bigger and taller than my peers, but there I'm small and weak. That's especially annoying, because I remember that it's wrong and remember myself as adult. Anyway, in the dream I'm kidnapped and taken somewhere in India. I'm sitting at the feet of some rajah and...” Sherlock smirks, but it's not a happy smirk; John imagines he can see something childish and even hysterical in that smirk.

 

“And...?” John asks, mentally preparing himself for something graphic.

 

“We're playing chess,” Sherlock utters in such a tone that John decides not to ask for further details. “Irrelevant. It's just a dream. Apparently even I get tired sometimes. Let's go to Devon when this is over.”

 

“Devon? Why Devon?”

 

“There are ancient Celtic inscriptions we could decode, of course. Let's sleep, I'm tired.”

 

However much Sherlock tries to dismiss any influence the nightmares might have on him, this night – contrary to his usual habits – he clutches to John so hard that in the morning it takes some doing to untangle himself from the tight bear hug. Plus, for the rest of the day John has a crick in his neck from the uncomfortable position.

 

 

John is quite confident that it will take some time for Sherlock to find a good enough flat, because despite his pointed attitude towards his body as transport, he's actually very particular when it comes to his personal comfort. Nevertheless it is no more than a week after their memorable discussion on the topic that Sherlock announces they are moving at the end of the same month.

 

“Fantastic,” John mutters. “Marvellous. Mrs Hudson has found new tenants I take it?”

 

“Don't be silly,” Sherlock responds irritably. “We're not letting this flat go. Some random nitwits going through my things is all I need. Mrs Hudson is informed.”

 

“What about the... people we've put this whole act up for...” John licks his lips nervously. “Won't they find it suspicious?”

 

Sherlock just smirks.

 

“I've thought it through. And while we're still in this flat I need your help with something.”

 

“What is it?” John frowns.

 

“The bruises are fading. I've been giving myself new ones – our kind landlady lent me some jars and spirit, but this method has its limitations. Besides, another visit to A&E wouldn't go amiss – the new flat is in a different part of town.”

 

“I'm not going to hit you,” John snaps. “And I won't allow any repeat sessions on the stairs either.”

 

He's ready fight for it, feels his body going tense already, but to his surprise Sherlock doesn't even raise his eyebrow.

 

“That's not what I'm getting at,” he says.

 

“What are you getting at then?”

 

“Sparring without protective gear. You know, like we did before visiting Ms Adler.”

 

John tries to hide his feelings at the mention of The Woman, but he's actually hoping that even if Sherlock notices a trace of guilt on John's face, he'll attribute it to some other reason. On the other hand, it's Sherlock. He did ask for the woman's notebook; he must have realised that John had been lying.

 

“Sparring is fine,” John decides. “I can do that. But this time I'm not going to hit you in the face.”

 

“Alright, let's not risk concussion,” Sherlock agrees as lightly. “It would even be in character, considering.”

 

They spar right there in the living room for about ten minutes - until they have to stop the lunacy and it’s all John's fault – he should have warned Sherlock that tickling him in the ribs sends him into fits of uncontrollable laughter, but there's nothing to be done about that now.

 

In short, the spectacle ends with them laughing their heads off like villains in an old black and white silent film, gasping for air and prostrated on the floor. John finds himself thinking that he hasn’t felt so normal for an inexcusably long time.

 

“I'll go bump into more things,” Sherlock declares. “A table for instance. Decidedly not enough bruises.”

 

“Well,” John offers with feigned indifference, “it depends on what kind of bruises you need. Or scratches.”

 

“Oh?” Sherlock seems to be oblivious to the fact that John is already straddling him. “Any suggestions?”

 

“A few.” John nods, biting the skin that just happens to be on a neck within his reach. Then he grabs Sherlock's wrists and twists them roughly over the other man's head. ”Any objections?”

 

“You're brilliant,” Sherlock chuckles, arching up with the grace of gymnast. “I've had a positively degenerate effect on you.”

 

 

Sherlock has always been interested in cognitive bias and attribute substitution, particularly in how good people (generally speaking good people) - despite being obviously hypocritical - so readily justify their actions or inaction with moral considerations that only lead to more problems.

 

Take John for instance. Sherlock didn't need much - just a couple of bruises and ugly enough ribs to have an excuse for an X-ray, but instead of acquiring all the injuries in a controlled environment with an experienced medic present (a medic who's used to dealing with a lot worse physical damage than that), John prefers to capitulate before the useless social stereotypes and his repressed guilt, and flatly refuses.

 

The result is an excess of energy spent on a roundabout way of acquiring the injuries where Sherlock has to be careful not to hurt John in the process, because any stiffness in his movements would be noticed by his colleagues as well as by a certain Mr M's spies, who, Sherlock hopes, are still watching them.

 

Thankfully the corner of their desk turns out to be quite a useful tool for inflicting damage. In a decade or so when it will be possible to publish a paper about self-inflicted injuries, he'll make sure to recommend the company that made this piece of furniture.

 

John is undoubtedly one of the best representatives of the human species, but even he turns out to be incapable of consistently maintaining a straightforwardly logical pattern of behaviour, despite the fact that Sherlock provides him with the means of salvaging his emotional image of self-worth. So what could he expect from the rest of the human race?

 

Nothing, that's what. Because even Sherlock himself has succumbed to stress apparently; namely his instant capitulation before John's refusal to hit him. Astonishingly Sherlock didn't even try to persuade John. Instead he promptly offered a compromise, and it's only because he remembered the expression John had on his face when The Golden Ram owner was opening the slave cage. Like a coward, Sherlock preferred to avoid the repeat experience. The archaeological holidays in Devon will indeed benefit them both.

 

The second visit to A&E would have been positively tedious if a young, fair-headed woman hadn't started talking to him. At first she seems so dull and uninspiring that Sherlock doesn't even bother to deduce her aside from the obvious: she ate a hamburger for breakfast and her younger brother's an addict.

 

She steps so close to him that she has to raise her head to see his face. She's free, which means that the next thing she'll do is to ask him to bend, check the name on his collar and ask for the telephone number. People have tried to borrow him like that before: two men and one woman. One man and the woman had sexual goals and the other man was a photographer in need of a model. This woman, however, doesn't do anything of the sort. She smiles at him and says, “Hello.”

 

At that moment Sherlock raises his eyes to her and takes a second look. An attempt to greet a slave invites a certain degree of interest. Everything becomes clear almost instantly. She doesn't seem to be a secret abolitionist, so it has to be the only other alternative. He's right: she has a simple business card in her fingers.

 

“It's the second time I’ve seen you here, slave. Do you need help?”

 

One would need a very attuned ear to hear the faint condensation in her tone. Also, she's sincere in her compassion. A volunteer. A seamstress who helps people in her free time. As well as she knows how.

 

Sherlock says nothing and with the assertiveness of a salesperson or a self-taught counsellor she interprets his silence in her own way. She continues in a deliberately soft tone.

 

“My name is Christina May. You can ask about me at the municipal clinic, everybody knows me there. We help people like you. You can come to our classes in your free time – we have night and morning groups. Can you read?”

 

She holds out a card. ‘Society for Understanding and Accepting Spiritual Bonds’ it says. Sherlock knows this organisation: it has government funding to maintain a hotline for slaves and conduct group counselling sessions.

 

“You... can help me?” Sherlock asks, trying to make his voice waver in the right way instead of snickering acidly. “But how?”

 

“Your master must be angry with you since it's the second time you're here,” she says with a sunny smile. “Our methods help to alleviate anger, teach you to control your breathing and your body. We are-”

 

“But I don't need help,” Sherlock utters in a quiet voice, feeling a cold fury boiling inside him. “Every blow he delivers I receive with joy, because it is delivered with a loving hand. I love my master, I love everything he does to me. I'm a slave and that is wonderful: I don't have to make decisions, think about the future or worry about food and shelter. All I need is to please my master, and isn't it great that I can help him relieve his stress and help him let out his frustrations on me, instead of on himself?”

 

Gradually, Sherlock's voice gains strength. From soft and exultant it turns progressively more and more mocking, until it's openly vitriolic sarcasm. People in the waiting room raise their eyes at him one by one in bewilderment; a man stands up and starts for the exit, cradling his hand which has been inexpertly wrapped into a kitchen towel (a domestic burn, treatable by rubbing with Vaseline, shouldn't have come here in the first place).

 

“Slavery is bliss!” Sherlock announces triumphantly, taking a step towards the woman, who is now backing away from him, throwing frightened looks around her, but no one seems to be rushing to her aid. “All of us have been brought into this world to serve the Lord, but the object of my service is so much nearer - I can touch him, gaze at him and inhale his blessed odour. Is this not the ultimate joy of my miserable life? He's my universe, and I am happy to live my life just as the powers that be have thought wise to set the world order: for some to govern and others to obey. Oh, if only I were allowed to experience such a wretchedly harmful emotion as pride, I would undoubtedly be proud – because what could be more noble than my current situation?”

 

At that moment Sherlock's hands are wrenched behind his back by the hospital security someone summoned. Or well, to be more precise, an attempt is made at wrenching: Sherlock stands quietly and doesn't resist, which kind of takes the wind out of all the initial aggression.

 

“Slavery is paradise!” is his parting, now calm, sentence. “Isn't that what you wanted to tell me about?”

 

“Y-yes...” Although Sherlock is already being led away, she still keeps moving backwards until the opposite wall stops her. “You're right. But... come anyway. All right?” There’s a poorly hidden mix of controversial feelings on her face that she clearly has rarely experienced.

 

“Does anybody know who his master is?” the older guard asks (single parent, three children, loves chocolate, which he's allergic to).

 

The woman shakes her head.

 

“If you ask me, his master is one poor fellow.” The second guard snorts. That’s the younger one (has a rare motorcycle, which he devotes his every spare minute to).

 

John retrieves him from the nearest police station a couple of hours later. His hands are shaking.

 

Once more Sherlock weighs both of their contributions to this operation and decides that perhaps John has a moral right to refuse to hit him if it's so difficult for him emotionally. In the end, his reserves are not limitless either. He even allows a working theory that the whole situation is worse on his partner than it is on him; Sherlock's not sure how to prove or disprove it or whether it's necessary. Perhaps it's better to just wrap the case up as fast as he can.

 

Unfortunately there’s only so far one can push it. It’s like fishing: once you get it on the hook – just hold on! Thankfully, when Sherlock calls him an idiot during dinner for the third time, John seems to feel better.

 

  


 

They visit Dr Rohan Desai on one of those unbearably English October Sundays, when snow is in the air, early garlands have already started to invade shop windows and despite the refreshing frost, a sickly-sweet stench of consumerism is already spreading, disguised as a Christian holiday. The stars haphazardly scattered all over window displays, wreaths in scarlet bows, fake candy canes – the whole miserable collection invokes conflicting emotions in Sherlock.

 

On the one hand, it is not difficult to remember those few happy moments in his childhood that he associates with Christmas (Mycroft being back from school, sometimes with friends, the new books he brought along, stories, and the opportunities for playing tricks that only needed an accomplice). On the other hand, everything that happened afterwards in no way invites sentimental reminiscence.

 

Dr Desai lives in a block of flats in Battersea, in one of those strange places where you seem to be in a decent neighbourhood, but just around the corner you run into a blue collar district and around the other a fashionable residential area. A very colourful environment.

 

She greets them surprisingly warmly – not as acquaintances, but as old friends.

 

“John,” she says cheerfully, if a bit stiffly, as if masking her confusion (does it very well, Sherlock had no idea she's such a good actress). “I'm so glad you've managed to drop by at last, it's been ages! Come in, I'll introduce you to Martin.”

 

The shock on John's face is replaced by understanding after the former officer glances around and sees that all the thin doors in the feline-stinking corridor have peep holes. Sherlock practically sees the block letters 'CONSPIRACY' appearing on John's forehead.

 

Undoubtedly, Dr Desai is putting on an act of 'Old Friend' or even 'Former Lover, Current Friend' because of the curious neighbours and Sherlock admonishes himself of not telling John to buy flowers – fine, another time.

 

“Yes, yes, of course,” John mutters, crossing the threshold.

 

And then immediately throws the game by glancing questioningly at Sherlock. He has to go over his options quickly – stay in the corridor and wait for the results of John's negotiations, start coughing to give John an excuse to invite him in out of compassion... but thankfully Rohan herself comes to his aid.

 

“Let him come in too,” she tells John in a neutral tone. “Can't leave him in the corridor now, can we?”

 

“Of course. Let's not excite the neighbours too much.” John nods stiffly. “Come in, Sherlock.”

 

The flat is small but apparently cosy - if one liked that sort of thing, but it’s too conventionally neat for Sherlock’s taste. John looks around with exaggerated enthusiasm. It's obvious he's checking for ceramic elephants, statues of Buddha and Shiva, and incense sticks.

 

“The altar's in the bedroom,” Sherlock whispers into John's ear. Resisting mockery is beyond him at the moment. “You really want to be invited in there?”

 

John blushes. His answer is a swear word, fortunately delivered in a low voice, because at the same moment a man appears in the kitchen door. He looks a little over thirty and is introduced as Martin Morstan.

 

Awkwardly he's carrying a tray with a tea set, which hardly corresponds to his expensive suit and the overall appearance of a good City lawyer (which he obviously is). Doubtlessly he earns enough for his lover (Dr Desai) to comfortably live in Chelsea, in a flat three times this big even if he had a wife and kids (which he doesn't). Evidently she prefers not to. Well, Sherlock had noted a strong streak of self-sufficiency and independence in her the first time they met.

 

It seems that Sherlock has cause for self-admonishment the second time today. He had pegged the salesperson to be Rohan's abolitionist contact. He should have seen that the cosmetics seller, displaying all the signs of leading a lonely life but with a wedding band on her left hand, was not trying to mislead her clients, but a widow who followed East Slavic traditions; and therefore she's of the same ethnic origin as the nurse, which is the reason for their close relationship (neither the nurse nor the doctor were interested in the goods she was selling).

 

“Please, take a seat,” Morstan invites them.

 

Fleetingly, Sherlock wonders why John isn't sitting yet; thankfully his confusion lasts only a moment, otherwise he would have started doubting his mental abilities. Of course he's not sitting, when Sherlock himself is still standing and gawking at the interior, although he can already list all the most important events in Dr Desai's life for the last five years and name (with a fifty pound accuracy) the monthly sum she gives out of her pocket to 'charity', but which actually goes for 'the cause'.

 

When Sherlock realises the reason he hasn’t sat down, he feels an ice cold shiver of fear run down his spine. It's not that he's really still deducing the room, it's just that it seems to be impossible for him to be the first one to take a seat on a battered sofa (someone probably has a habit of reading with their feet up and leaning on the armrests) while there are _free people_ in the room. Sherlock hadn't noticed that he's that far gone. Disgusting.

 

Fortunately he catches his hesitation fast enough; not even John seems to have noticed (although he can't be sure about that; John has an uncanny ability to subconsciously understand things about Sherlock that he doesn't process via his brain – either a canine or a parental characteristic).

 

Sherlock sits easily, naturally, not trying to seem more relaxed than appropriate in the company of mere acquaintances in a comparable social situation. He takes out the key and with a practised movement unlocks the collar, putting it on the coffee table in front of the sofa.

 

Then he asks, “I take it you're one of the key figures dealing with The Kameraden abroad, Mr Morstan? Note that I'm not asking if your partners at Smith, Ferguson and Co. are also part of the movement.”

 

John is taking his time with sitting down, analysing Morstan's reactions and level of aggressiveness.

 

“We have a very interesting discussion ahead of us, I see.” Morstan sits down, smiling only with his mouth.

 

“And you doubted me,” Rohan notes, walking in from the hallway.

 

From that point on, the conversation flows smoothly and doggedly around neutral topics: weather, football, politics, all in a painfully law-abiding tone. Mainly it is John and Morstan who talk, the host and Sherlock remaining silent and nodding in a supportive manner where necessary. Finally, Rohan stands up to head to the kitchen for biscuits and Sherlock glances at John. Luckily he gets it (they discussed this manoeuvre previously) and offers his enthusiastic help.

 

The dentist raises her eyebrows, but leads John into the kitchen without an argument. Sherlock has to stamp down an unpleasant feeling of unease. One part of it is the same primitive crap about his _'master'_ leaving him alone with a strange man, a threat. The second part is even less rational and thus irritates him even more: John and Sherlock are friends first and all the rest second (at least that is how John might view it; they've never discussed their relationship). Rohan Desai is, objectively speaking, a beautiful woman, and unquestionably John's type. Besides there would be no complications in the form of a slave collar which Sherlock has...

 

No, idiotic thoughts: John is trustworthy, Desai's taken and her overall character also suggests loyalty as a strong trait. Besides, a mere fifteen minutes alone is unlikely to evoke any strong feelings. And still the fact remains: who in their right mind would choose some City lawyer if they could have John Watson!

 

Sherlock has to make a conscious decision to not stare at them pathetically as they leave, instead keeping his gaze fixed on Morstan. No one seems to have noticed. Good.

 

The door to the kitchen closes and they hear running water. Now Sherlock finally has an opportunity to voice the reason he undertook this whole venture with the letter from Delhi.

 

Morstan listens to him intently without saying a word.

 

“That would be very, very difficult,“ he replies. “But Rohan insisted.”

 

“Truthfully, you're indebted to us almost as much as Dr Desai,” Sherlock says, also lowering his voice. “She's finally agreed to reciprocate your feelings after letting go of some of the guilt about her brother, hasn't she?”

 

“How do you...” Morstan frowns. “Fine. Doesn't matter. I've heard about the great detective, Sherlock Holmes.” He snorts, not ironically, but as if to his own thoughts. “You could seriously help our cause.”

 

“Name your price and I'll pay it.” Sherlock shrugs. “But I'm not going to join the abolitionists. I'm extremely selfish, you see...”

 

“Too bad,” Morstan says simply. “But you do understand that I'm going to squeeze every last drop out of you?”

 

“You may try.” The corners of Sherlock's mouth drop.

 

“All right.” Morstan leans back on the sofa. “Find out who my secret admirer is and I'll arrange the transportation for you.”

 

“A secret admirer?” Sherlock allows his voice to express interest and a hint of surprise.

 

“Yes,” he hums shortly. “For the last four weeks I have received a large Indian pearl every Sunday. It's symbolic in a way, since I've participated in organising an escape route for slaves from the West Indies, but there's no actual link. As you can see, it's not just me who’s under a hammer: the operation was top secret.”

 

“We can discuss it when John rejoins us.” Sherlock leans back on the sofa and steeples his fingers under his chin. “I don't keep secrets from him.”

 

“Oh?” Morstan raises his eyebrow. “And the matter we just finished discussing?”

 

“Temporary. You guard your doctor from knowing about your most dangerous operations too, do you not?” Sherlock states. “Although she's informed in general.”

 

“Makes sense.” Morstan nods. “By the way, I'm an old admirer of Doctor Watson's stories. Tell me, can you really just delete unnecessary data? Like the solar system, for instance?”

 

Sherlock almost groans out loud.

 

 

  


 

Moving to Camden is scheduled for the end of the month. The new studio apartment has a view on a park and a nice-looking lawn and the flat itself is quite decent, because why the hell would John Watson, who earns enough on his part-time job at the clinic be economising on his living conditions, especially when Sherlock also makes profit on the stock market and his detective work has finally started to pick up?

 

The kitchen is smaller – not enough room for all of Sherlock's equipment, but the bare minimum, which he needs to work with immediate material data, will fit. There is no separate room for a slave, but the real estate agent is kind enough to point out an alcove that can be fitted with a screen or even a temporary wall. She holds out a business card of a reliable company that won't charge too much.

 

John nods, biting his inner cheek, Sherlock is silent and looks down, glancing up and away from time to time, to make it more realistic. Fresh bruises are blooming on his neck: some of them are a result of creative provocation in bed (Sherlock had to hold back from giving John corresponding marks – although they are lucky in John having somewhat less delicate skin), and some come from various experiments with his collar and other household tools at hand.

 

The flat has huge windows and plenty of sunshine, hot running water (no more limited boiler water business), no creaking floors, a brand new wiring (no more sparks and blackouts at 11pm), and an elevator.

 

From their first steps over the threshold they both loathe the new place with vengeance.

 

The last evening at Baker Street feels stifled and tense. Most of the stuff (most of them Sherlock's) is already packed and at the storage. Mrs Hudson offered to hold on to their things for them, but Sherlock insisted – everything must look as if John's severed all ties with her.

 

They are sitting in the two chairs that are still in their usual places, one of them is Mrs Hudson's, the other they've decided to just leave. Sherlock is reading, John is pretending to.

 

Finally, Sherlock lowers the newspaper and growls, “For God's sake John! Take the underground to Euston or Liverpool Street, find a couple of second-hand shops and buy me clothes.”

 

“Clothes?” John also lowers his paper. Frowns. “Something for your escapades with disguises?”

 

“Almost.” He smirks grimly. “It's the clothing I'm going to wear from now on. Rather strange for a slave to dress better than his master, don't you think?”

 

There's a short pause.

 

John's voice is pointedly calm when he says, “I don't see anything strange in that. There a plenty of slave owners with weird kinks.”

 

“True, but not in your case. Go. I'll write down my size numbers, but you don't have to try very hard. It's probably even better if they don't fit that well.”

 

In the end, John goes, grumbling that in such a weather a dog shouldn't be sent outside, least of all retired army doctors with more than real shoulder wounds which (surprise-surprise) actually ache (wounds not doctors).

 

So now Sherlock is sitting alone in a semi-empty flat stripped of almost all signs of their cohabitation. Thinks of making a cuppa, but is too lazy to get up. A dull blue twilight slowly seeps into the room, drop by drop, like a morphine into a tube.

 

There was a radio playing downstairs earlier, Diana Ross's voice singing, or some other insignificant blues singer that for some reason has evaded deletion. Smells like fresh pastry. Sherlock can hear an anxious shuffling of Mrs hudson’s slippers; she feels too embarrassed to speak to them these days, especially John, although it should be the other way around. She even looks at him only from the corner of her eyes.

 

Well, Sherlock decides he’s not going to take it anymore and goes downstairs.

 

He bumps into Mrs Hudson half-way down. Apparently she is coming up: dressed with caution, as if for a serious talk. Why? What about? Everything important has already been said. Sentiments again, no doubt.

 

He leads her back into the kitchen. Reflexively Sherlock reaches for the old curved-edged fridge, but aborts – their landlady has such a sad pair of eyes on her that he suddenly remembers being admonished in childhood about eating while other people spoke about their feelings, even if his chewing adequately expresses his attitude towards them.

 

“Did something happen, Mrs Hudson?” he asks. “What did you want to talk about? I assure you, it’s perfectly safe here even if John and I are away...”

 

“Sherlock dear,” the old lady starts, then purses her lips and runs her troubled eyes over his bruises (including the ones hidden under his shirt – Sherlock's always been astonished by her keen insight that doesn't seem to be a result of intellect nor even life experience). “I understand, dear, I do. I know it's some kind of a plan of yours that you are moving out and everything... But tell me honestly, are the two of you really... okay?”

 

Suddenly the room is small, void and insignificant. It’s dangling somewhere far down, under his feet while the grey sky of London balloons out into a panoramic view, and the little old lady in a dark purple dress inside some kitchen is of no consequence at all. Even her colour palette seems to be blending in with the tiny flower-patterned walls and cosy interior.

 

“You and John?” she says inquisitively, raising her pleading, blue-shadowed, eyes to him. “Are you managing?”

 

And it should be easy to just lie; it's logical, should be natural, why the hell not? He can lie to John, he is lying to him, and John is his... Then why can't he lie to this sweet little woman?

 

Sherlock smiles softly, takes a step forward, leans down, takes her face between his palms and gently kisses her forehead.

 

“We are fine, Mrs Hudson” he replies. “Do you think John would ever abuse his position? Or that I can't stand up for myself?”

 

“That's not what I'm getting at, Sherlock.” She sits on a high stool and gestures wearily with her hand. “Or perhaps it's about that too. I remember that neighbour I had in Florida who was sold into slavery because of his debts. How the kids, that he used to teach to fold paper planes, started spitting at him and... You never know how somebody will act when life turns. But no, what I was actually talking about is how you're putting up this act – and I do see it's an act, but I can also see that it's taking its toll too, and how terribly John torments himself with worrying over you!” She shakes her head. "It's obvious, he'd stick his hand into fire for you...” Mrs Hudson rubs her nose. ”It's always worse if it's someone you care about... Well, anyway. If there's anything I can do... And I do mean anything, Sherlock. Even if it's just to talk to someone for you, absolutely whatever I can do to help. I know you're moving out, but don't you think for one moment that I will ever forget you or begin thinking ill of either of you! Sherlock, darling, please don't forget to keep me posted, all right?”

 

Sherlock squeezes her hands, feeling as if something hard and cold is melting inside him. Irrational relief. Psychological reaction to realisation of being trusted.

 

“Please, Mrs Hudson,” he responds as gently as he can allow himself, “How could we possibly forget about our not-a-housekeeper? And her special recipe tarts?”

 

Mrs Hudson smiles, her eyes suddenly wet with tears. “They are in the fridge, darling. I'll pack a stack of cookies for the house-warming. I've been cooking whole evening; almost done now.”

 

  


 

The first week at the new flat passes, as can be expected, quite peacefully, but the inner turmoil turns John into a wreck. The removal van delivers all the boxes first thing in the morning, after which John goes to work and then spends his time irrationally worrying about how Sherlock is doing. Idiotic of course. And how is Sherlock doing, indeed? The flat is empty, no one there aside from Sherlock himself. Absolutely nothing to be afraid of.

 

And still the strange feeling of dread refuses to let up. John barely even succeeds in concentrating on his patients, instead he's staring at the clock. (Luckily, the life and physical well-being of most of them hardly depends on his professional zeal.) It seems as if Chronos (a time-walking fellow in the Greek mythology) has lead weights shackled to his legs. 

 

On his way back John skips the trip to the grocer's, hurries as if there's a fire. No idea why; something's just eating at him from the inside. Can't help but think about how a couple of days back – at the old flat – Sherlock woke up in the middle of the night and John asked him about it. Asked if he was dreaming about being an Indian boy again, and Sherlock said – don't be an idiot, I was an English boy, don't you remember? And then he said that no, it was a different dream. John, naturally, wanted to know what it was about then and Sherlock fell silent. His breathing seemed ragged in the darkness of their bedroom, but when he replied, his voice was steady, “That they pulled a sack over your head and shot you. And I'm being sold on an auction.”

 

Since that night John can't help but expect a shot in the back. Anticipation at its worst. The lull between two artillery attacks where you lie in wait, and wait and wait and wait for it to finally erupt with the dull blast somewhere farther away, then there's this whistle and then... Well, never mind what comes then, the point is the anticipation when nothing's happening. Then the stars come out and still nothing. And you start thinking – what if they got lucky today? And you relax somewhat and that's when it's gonna hit.

 

That's what John is thinking about when he's rushing back to their new home. He doesn't allow himself to think about anything truly terrible; the mental images are flashing before his eyes as it is. But no, everything seems peaceful: the flat is transparent grey (that's because it's getting late, John) and Sherlock, clad in unfamiliar pyjamas, is standing at the window holding the violin in his lowered hand. Didn't even turn round when he heard John's key in the lock. The bed sheets are crumpled - at least he slept.

 

John wants to ask, 'Are there any letters from clients?', wants to say, 'Sorry, no provisions today. How about a sandwich?' Instead, he just comes up to Sherlock, embraces him from behind and presses his cheek to the detective's shoulder.

 

He thought Sherlock would relax in his arms as he sometimes does, but no, his body remains firm, just allowing to lean on him, but John doesn't feel ashamed about the moment of weakness.

 

“I feel it too,” Sherlock utters dully, “As if someone's watching.”

 

“How did you know that I...”

 

“Oh, for God's sake, John!”

 

“Is it Moriarty's men? Have they found us already?”

 

“No, I've been very careful. I've not been near them for the past month. No, it's... It has nothing to do with Moriarty.”

 

“Who then?” John asks with dread amounting inside him. “Who are we acting for? Why did we move here?”

 

“I can't answer that.”

 

“You can't?”

 

Sherlock turns round and puts his hands on John's shoulders. Very intently, he's looking into John's eyes and again, for the umpteenth time, John understands and is overwhelmed.

 

Sherlock knows. Sherlock makes mistakes, but not once has he done so with fatal consequences. And John promised.

 

“Nerves,” Sherlock's answer is short. “We both have them. It's natural in our situation, but we need to keep it together.”

 

“Right. Nerves.” John nods. “Shall I prescribe us mild sedatives?”

 

“Yes. I'll even take them.”

 

John delivers a disbelieving snort and Sherlock rolls his eyes, annoyed.

 

“For some reason you are harbouring a delusion that I'm careless with my health. You're wrong. I take care of my body as is needed.” He snorts. “How I sometimes wish I were a bodiless spirit. My body’s so tired, though the brain's working as usual. Damn transport!” Sherlock exclaims and slams his right fist into his left forearm.

 

John palms the fist in a calming manner.

 

“It doesn't matter,” he says quietly. “We'll manage.”

 

At least he really wants to believe it.

 

  


 

Inspector Lestrade isn't having a pleasant day: a nasty murder, an obvious dead end and then the boss sicks a (mostly) paperwork-related inspection on him. In the afternoon there's some improvement: first, he receives the lab result for another nasty case and with clear conscience he sends Donovan to conduct the arrest (she's been eager to do that since forever), then he loses a battle with his conscience and decides to skip the half-hour nap in his armchair in favour of tackling his quarterly report.

 

Despite his enthusiasm, the fate is decidedly against Gregory Lestrade passing the next inspection successfully because just as he’s achieved his peak in whipping up some serious statistics about sexual assaults, there's a knock on his door jamb – a decisive knock – some blockhead of a subordinate, no doubt.

 

Greg raises his eyes, preparing to chastise the idiot, but stops short – it's Sherlock. How the hell did he even get in? Slaves are not allowed. Never mind, Sherlock's always managed to somehow.

 

He's even thinner now. There's a bruise on his cheekbone and a dark line visible under his loose collar (seems to have been put on too tight at some point and then left on for too long), the bags under his eyes from the lack of sleep are blue and the pale, feverish skin doesn't add him any beauty either.

 

He's almost swaying on his feet. As bad as that slaves don't look even on the leaflets the Department of Propaganda sometimes confiscates from The Movement. The casual clothes (ordinary, but strange on him – a hoodie, t-shirt and jeans) are loose on him as if on a coat hanger.

 

Despite the subconscious feeling of disgust all slaves invoke in him, Greg suddenly experiences a mix of intense pity and deep sorrow. How the hell did that happen? Some altercation on the street, no doubt - a result of the ordinary Sherlockian disrespect and the rest is his habitual lack of sleep and malnutrition? Or... No, Greg doesn't even want to think about that. John is a regular guy. Besides, Sherlock's his friend. Was a friend. Damn, as if he hasn't got enough things to worry about...

 

It's an awkward topic for Greg. Immediately after the trial he only phoned Baker Street once and upon hearing from John that everything was 'all right', he latched onto that excuse to throw their problems out of his head. Since everything was all right and all. After Sherlock's conviction he had plenty of his own problems; a lengthy IA inspection where heads rolled with very little forewarning. Greg is still surprised that he managed to retain his seat. He suspects it was because the homicide chief yelled at the head of the Department of Internal Affairs that if he demoted Lestrade into constables, then who in their right mind would catch all the murderers on such a salary. Patrol officers?! And besides...

 

Deep down Greg recognises slaves as individuals and therefore feels distinctly uneasy when one is present. He was taught at school that slavery was economically justified and deeply rooted in human nature, therefore will always exist as established by Marx and Freud. And still the concept has always unsettled Greg. In his teenage years he and his friends often talked about some day a cheap robot finally being invented which would make slavery magically disappear. Just as the assembly-line production drastically decreased the demand on slave markets: grandpa had told Greg about the ease with which people could plunge into slavery previous to that .

 

Later these naïve conversations were forgotten. At least for most of them: one of his friends actually did dive into the Abolitionist movement head first. About a year ago he was caught by the other department and Lestrade was told not to be an idiot and pretend not to know him. He couldn't and naturally, the promotion passed him by once more.

 

The same old uncomfortable sense of dichotomy overwhelms him as he's looking at the alien face of the younger... no, he's probably the only Holmes now.

 

“Sherlock. What can I do for you?” he asks, trying not to break eye contact and appear calm.

 

“Detective Inspector, I need a word.”

 

“Sherlock, I...” Greg struggles to find words and feels terribly anxious which makes him ferociously angry with himself. Thankfully, he soon remembers that Sherlock and John still take on cases. John has even published a story recently in The Strand. Even though it was an old case, from before… before the trial. “I don't think... I don't think I can help you. It's a homicide department and you... If it's about... any of your cases, John has to come himself and then...”

 

“My master,” Sherlock stresses the words. “Can't come. Please, Lestrade, we need to talk... privately. Not here. In the park, perhaps?”

 

Greg glances around nervously. He isn't thrilled about the idea of talking to Sherlock. All those bruises... Were Sherlock to accuse John, Greg... there's nothing he can do, frankly. He can't open a case, but to do nothing... The best he'll be able to do is to talk to John. But what in the world would he say?

 

In the end Greg gets angry with himself. Or, one might even say that he's disgusted with himself: he's over forty years old and never has he given in to cowardly voices in his head, and now he gets a wobbly? Yes, Sherlock is a slave now, but before he became one, he did a hell of a lot for Greg and his department, so the least Greg can do is to hear him out. But what if...

 

No, he can't allow himself to think like that. Of course, his success rate dropped after Sherlock left, but one should also remember that they had the additional workload of checking and double-checking all the cases Sherlock had been consulted on. It lasted all through the infamous trial process and dragged on for a while after that. How would Sherlock even work with Donovan and Anderson now? Before it was never all plain sailing between them either, so how on earth could those two work with Sherlock if even Greg himself...

 

Now he feels completely ashamed of himself and moreover, the quarterly report somehow seems to have a strong anti-magnetic field around it, so he says, “Fine, let's go outside.”

 

That's how they find themselves on a park bench in Christchurch Gardens. To be more specific – Greg is sitting and Sherlock is standing next to him, frozen, nervously fingering his collar.

 

On his way out, Greg habitually grabbed a coffee from the stall, Sherlock, of course, didn't, and now Greg has no idea what to do with the cup. It warms his fingers quite comfortably though, so Greg's not really motivated to abandon it.

 

“All right, what is it that you wanted to talk about?” he asks, overpowering his inner discomfort. 

 

'Look straight at him,' Greg tells himself, 'Maintain eye contact,' he adds and then does. To his surprise, Sherlock meets his eyes almost mockingly, with his own brand of sardonic smile you can barely guess at the corners of his lips.

 

“I need your help, Detective Inspector.”

 

“There's not much I can...”

 

“It's about Mycroft. And by the way, don't be embarrassed to drink your coffee. You'll need all the clarity of thought you're capable of.”

 

'Arrogant prick,' Greg thinks as usual, and then, as usual, obeys.

 

Once a Sherlock… Well, a spade’s a spade, right?

 

  


 

Today, John isn't expecting any nasty surprises. It's the other way around: they've just solved that Morstan case with the Indonesian pearls and although the 'treasure map' (a microchip containing code system drug traffickers used) now rests somewhere on the bottom of the Thames, which only seems to have calmed Morstan and his charming fiancée down. Now they’ve left for Europe to celebrate; upon closing the clinic Rohan even stopped by to say hello while shoving some Indian national honey-based sweets at John.

 

John had no intention of eating them; he doesn't like sweets, especially the cloying variety. Decided to let Sherlock have them. The detective perked right up, but did his best to hide it: after returning from making bets at the racecourse once again, (also from, as he so vaguely put it, 'meeting his contacts',) he snorted happily and having grabbed the pastries rolled straight into bed to watch TV.

 

John didn't even have a heart to admonish him about crumbs like his mum did with him and Harry when they were kids. Only chuckled quietly and resolved to buy more sweets in the future. John has never had a sweet tooth, not even as a child, that's why he forgets. Sherlock, naturally, doesn't remind him of such common substances and rarely goes to the grocers himself. And in his current situation he can't go to a restaurant and order a double dessert for himself either. Not quite a hardship, but one more nuisance nonetheless.

 

The TV set right in front of the bed is one of the definitive advantages of the new flat. And the telly itself is a newer model than the one they have on Baker Street – a colour TV. If only there were more programmes in colour too!

 

In short, John isn't expecting any trouble and is not surprised when Sherlock isn't at home when he returns.

 

Strictly speaking, the law doesn't forbid slaves roaming wherever at what ever hours if they have their owner's permission, but in practice it's a covert curfew: if a slave appears somewhere after dark they have to have a notarized permit from their master for freedom of movement in a certain area.

 

Sherlock has such a permit for Greater London, so John isn't too worried, until... until, while sipping a beer and watching the closing credits for another rerun episode of Doctor Who (The Ninth and Rosa have successfully exposed a man who invented tiny short-wave telephones and used it as an excuse to place a net of satellite transmitters around the planet to control the population) he realises that it's almost midnight. And still no Sherlock.

 

Of course, before, he used to disappear for a day or two sometimes and even for a week, but that was before. After the trial he's never been gone for more than several hours without telling John beforehand or leaving him a note, although John had never asked him to and never would. Perhaps he's finally realised how important it is for John to always see him and know how he is. Or perhaps he's just felt uncertain in his new role.

 

Be as it may, he hasn't disappeared like that before, but he has now.

 

That night John doesn't get a wink of sleep. He's taken apart and reassembled his revolver several times, checked the extra bullets in it's hiding place behind the fridge, has done push-ups - one hundred and fifty plus (has to force himself to stop when he loses count, because the last thing he needs the next day are trembling limbs), then paces several miles worth of carpet circles.

 

Through the windows, in the hazy light of the street lamps, John can see an ordinary London winter night and Sherlock is there somewhere, hidden. Sherlock in a collar, vulnerable. Perhaps wounded, maybe even with something nasty in his blood stream... maybe he's gritting teeth in a last effort to wait for John.

 

No, that’s enough. Stop thinking about that.

 

By five in the morning John is very close to throwing on his jacket and jumping out into the wet, slushy streets, full of yesterday's snow that's already melting, to look for his friend, partner and an accomplice against the letter of the law.

 

At six he actually does it. Moreover, he leaves the door unlocked (in case Sherlock comes back bleeding and having lost the keys); just leaves a note 'Gone to the Yard' between the door jamb.

 

As expected, there's nothing good waiting for John at the Yard either.

 

That early the only people present are the night shift. He is offered to fill in the missing slave form, but John declines. He waits as long as nine o’clock, gradually becoming more and more feral. At first, he paces the corridors made out in a fake marble, then leaps out to the park round the corner, there's a fountain and the plague - Christchurch Gardens. Right. He perches on one bench, then another; watching office workers with their cases and purses going by. A municipal-collared slave is shuffling along, morosely moving his broom back and forth on the pavement. Judging by his appearance, he's also barely slept, though he doesn't look like a drunkard.

 

Guiltily, John peers at the poor man for a short while, then goes to a stall, buys coffee. Then, symbolically, he takes a few sips and offers the rest to the slave. The slave peers back with apprehensive surprise, but takes the cup and his thanks is heartfelt. John feels even worse.

 

In short – John is beside himself and he feels out of place in his own skin.

 

He returns to the Yard, where a young lad, who seems vaguely familiar (and going by the way he's overcompensating on friendliness, the lad has the same feeling about John), tells him that Lestrade is on vacation, has been for two days, and it’s absolutely impossible to get in touch with him. This is a dead-end: John has no interest in talking to any of Lestrade's team since they were the ones that so unanimously sent Sherlock to the block.

 

John goes back to the same night-shift officer (who's getting gloomier by the moment - his replacement is late) and agrees to fill the missing slave form. Then he dashes back – Sherlock might have returned.

 

Sherlock has – the door is wide open, the note missing. With his friend's name on the lips John bursts into the living room... only to find a grey cat on their bed, obviously well-fed and his coat shiny. John knows the cat: it belongs to their neighbour and despite home-breeding and a certified pedigree has an arrogance of a stray and an almost canine ability to open doors.

 

John grabs the animal under its belly and turns towards the stairs with intention to return the cat to its owner. And there it is: his note is lying on the floor, John just didn't noticed it in his hurry.

 

He's straightening up from taking up the note, when the feline jerks and breaks free. John makes an attempt at grabbing it, but misses. When he starts standing up again there's a sharp blow to his solar plexus; his mouth opens by its own volition, his eyes tear up. It's impossible to react to anything now, he can't even grab the revolver at his back.

 

It's over in a moment: the hallway is filled with broad-shouldered guys with black ski masks that leave only their eyes and mouths open, who wrench John’s arms behind his back, take his gun, gag him (with a professional, rubber gag), pull something impenetrable over his head, drag him down the stairs and push him onto a back seat of a sedan.

 

'That's it,' John thinks, his body covered in a cold sweat of terror. His heart rate picks up as he remembers Sherlock's dreams; his limbs tense – he's ready to shred iron chains – he can't. 'I'm finished. Is this really the end?.. And Sherlock?.. God, let it be some maharajah, he can escape form a harem, he's a genius. Anything but the mines, God, don’t let him become an organ donor!

 

  


 

The bed coverlet is snowy white, the cushions wine red – that and all of the décor somehow evoked an uneasy feeling in Gregory Lestrade. Or perhaps it was just that he hasn't been able to have a proper shuteye for the last two days, or maybe it’s the time difference... Damned Holmes! No, damn the both Holmeses! Greg knew how to handle himself in dangerous situations, but he wasn't a damn adrenaline junky like John either, so all these spy games, all those MIs – whatever their numbers -, all of it was simply too much for him.

 

The room Greg is staying in overlooks a narrow street, paved in cobblestone, and opposite, a stone-throw distance away, several picturesque houses are huddled together, looking as if copied directly from a colourful biscuit tin. The whole of Basel seemed to be weirdly biscuity.

 

The hotel itself also vaguely reminds him of pictures from a fairytale book by H. C. Andersen. There are antique armchairs in the oblong lobby and a porter (a bespectacled old woman writing up the guests into a ledger) is knitting in a dim light of a floor lamp.

 

Greg’s room is right under the roof and one of its walls tilts under an angle. The tiny balcony has a flower box with what he assumes to be pansies behind the ornate window fence. It looks as if the next moment Gerda will wave at him from the window opposite and invite him over. Or perhaps she'll even push a wooden board over the gap between the windows for him to climb in...

 

Unlikely, of course. In the life of Gregory Lestrade climbing out of windows has rarely been romantic. Never, in fact.

 

The note was brought to him by a homeless person the day before yesterday, and today, after by-passing the German border (a roundabout route, but it couldn't be helped), he's already here, suffering unpleasant tinglies from the unfamiliar language and strange continental behaviour of the locals.

 

Triple damn him! Even while a slave, Sherlock Holmes is sending couriers abroad, while Greg, a team leader of his own department, has hardly anyone to send out for a coffee.

 

The more time passes, the less Greg likes this whole blasted situation, but what a choice does he have? And if he's honest with himself, no one's forcing him.

 

Greg opens the window, wonders if he should perhaps take a walk to buy cigarettes, but remembers that in this God's forsaken place all the shops close at six; then he remembers that the bus station he arrived at has a convenience store and it's literally just at a stone's throw distance. Then he thinks about the withdrawal period and decides not to go anywhere at all, especially taking into account the note that asked him to remain in his room and not to leave it under any circumstances, but his hands are already pulling on his jacket and the warm coat.

 

'I'm not going to buy the cigarettes,' he decides contritely, grasping the door handle, he'll just call his wife, he’s sure he saw a long-distance phone somewhere...

 

Then without any noise or commotion the door under his hand opens and the room is quickly and quietly overtaken by persons in urban camouflage. Before Greg even has a chance to recover or realize what's happening, his arms are twisted behind him, one sleeve roughly pulled up almost to his elbow and he feels a painful sting of an injection on the inner side of his forearm. Greg's not sure if the cold shiver under his skin is real or imagined.

 

'Please, let it be sedative,' he thinks desperately. 'Or...' It's the thought of a truth serum that scares him – he's heard that there is such a thing and that it totally destroys the brain.

 

“Relax, Mr Lestrade,” says a voice in a perfect London accent with a slight Welsh lilt and a familiar professional air of somebody on the field of law enforcement. “If you cooperate, you'll come out of it unscratched and in one piece. I'll give you a second to think of your daughters... Done?”

 

Greg is only able to moan something unintelligible and nod weakly.

 

“What do you know about the whereabouts of Mycroft Holmes?”

 

  


 

A long time ago, in another, happier era, Sherlock and John used to make bets like this: they would take a cab while Sherlock is blindfolded and John would show the driver their destination written by hand on a sheet torn out of a notebook. Most cabbies would then nervously demand if the 'mister' with a blindfold knows what's going on, but a couple of vitriolic remarks about a bet and behavioural patterns of kidnap victims from Sherlock would make some of the cabbies to do what was asked of them (though most of them still just ordered them out of the taxi).

 

If the cabbie wasn't too outraged, John got to witness a fascinating spectacle: totally focussed, Sherlock sits up straight, his head turned primly ahead, his thick brows furrowed. Sooner or later he starts smiling triumphantly (God, how John misses that smile right now!) and John already knows what's going to happen next – “Come on, John! Battersea South? I was hoping it would be something challenging this time!”

 

Wherever they went, somehow, Sherlock always managed to guess the destination – he counted turns and listened for the smallest changes in the London noise. Or at times it was just the turns, because they sometimes agreed for Sherlock to wear ear plugs for the bet (or training). A couple of times John had tried to do it too; unsuccessfully. The sixth or even the fifth turn always proved too difficult a challenge for him. It's the vestibular system – it starts acting up the moment you close your eyes, and coupled with the vehicle movement... Somehow Sherlock is able to counter-effect it, but admittedly, he is a genius.

 

In short, by the time John is very professionally tossed out of the back seat he's entirely confused and hasn't even the slightest idea about his whereabouts. The only thing he’s sure of is that they had no time to get out of the central London.

 

First, there's pavement under his feet, then gravel. Then there are corridors, stairs, corridors again... They ascend a couple of flights, then descend some and John has no idea if they are above ground level or below. Then the sack is ripped off his head only to be replaced with a blindfold. He merely has a chance to glimpse at some concrete walls. They put John onto a stretcher and try to tie him to it. Sensing that that's it, they are going to open him up next, John makes the last gigantic effort to get free. Not a chance. They succeed and he's twisted, mangled, pressed down without even breaking a bone and for the most part without inflicting any serious damage. John wants to howl with despair and impotence, but then he feels the prickle of a needle in his arm and suddenly he's sleepy and indifferent.

 

No point in being frightened - it's all over anyway.

 

Still, the need to cry from helplessness persists and it seems that John has given in. At least the blindfold, when removed, feels wet. He's untied from the stretcher and put on a hard chair with armrests, his hands and feet fastened to it with metal cuffs – inescapable. Almost relaxed, John tugs at his restraints, but there's no give. Nope, he won't be getting out of it. Perhaps they'll kill him soon. It's too painful to think of how he let Sherlock down...

 

His eyes hurt something awful. He can't even tell if it's from the injection or the unbearably bright light flooding the concrete room with bare walls.

 

“You've been injected with L-311, Mr Watson,” says an unpleasant, disembodied voice from behind the wall of white light. “Don't fight it or it will damage your cognitive faculties. Using this serum on free citizens is not usually allowed, but in your case there are extenuating circumstances. In a few minutes you will experience the full force of the serum and speaking an untruth will not just be painful, but impossible. Please, don't torture yourself.”

'Cognitive faculties?' Panic, a thousand times stronger than the previous, hits him with its multi-ton hammer. 'Will it turn me into a retard?'

 

'And what of it?' an inner voice, which sounds exactly like Harry, laughs. 'Aren’t you one already?'

 

John tries to blink away the terrible ache in his eyes, along with the pain in his previously twisted arms. No. There's no way out, not a chance, only an unbearable voice behind the light.

 

“Answer the questions, Mr Watson, and you have nothing to fear.”

 

“Call me Dr Watson,” John finds the strength to utter in an ordinary tone, squinting and wetting his lips. “Or Captain.”

 

“Not likely, I'm afraid,” the hard voice responds. “Your date of birth, Mr Watson.”

 

John thinks of keeping silent just on principle. Surely, the man has a dossier in front of him anyway. A typical thin beige carton folder most likely. A small ugly file on a funny little man with a propensity for failing: either he gets in the way of bullets like an idiot or manages to get a sack pulled over his eyes like a civilian dope. While Sherlock... 

 

“What school did you go to?”

 

“You have it... in the file.”

 

“I want to hear it from you. What school did you go to?”

Nope. No. Fear rattles his body in waves; John wants to cower, coil into himself to hide his vulnerable belly, but he forces himself to sit straight. It's the chemicals, just chemicals. He just has to get through this and everything will be all right. It can’t be a criminal syndicate, because he hasn't been killed nor tortured, so it has to be special ops. (Mycroft? His thoughts are slow to move and it takes him a bit to realise that Mycroft's the last person who could have organised his kidnapping.) They are British, not Soviet though, so there's a chance that he can get out of it alive. Possibly not right away though.

 

“Do you have a disciplinary record from your university studies or from earlier?”

 

He has to keep calm, not to give too much away, try not to argue. Bid his time. If there's a slightest chance... Maybe Sherlock is somewhere here too?

 

“What do you know about the whereabouts of your property named Sherlock Holmes?”

 

  


 

“I've no idea why Sherlock contacted me!”

 

Greg Lestrade is sure he looks pretty much as undignified as it gets. There are tears and snot on his face and he blathers pathetically on and on, not unlike an under-age delinquent on his first arrest, he thinks with disgust. It's impossible to control himself however; the damn drug has turned everything upside-down in his blood while – so fucking unfairly – providing him with absolutely no buzz.

 

“Sherlock didn't tell me anything specific! He told me to go to Switzerland, get some documents from a contact and deliver them where I was told. I thought he was preparing his escape! He was all covered in bruises like a boxing bag, for Christ's sake! I've always thought that John was kidding when he kept saying that he wants to punch Sherlock, but hell!..”

 

“And you were quite sure of it?” The interrogator's voice is on the verge of being soft, calm almost, but the sharp pain in Lestrade's twisted arm isn't letting up. “You didn't get an impression that Holmes's current owner treats him well?“

 

Greg has just been beat up. It was done very professionally, if not very seriously – while his whole body is one hell of a bruise, there's not even a tooth loose. Clearly, they are saving their efforts for later.

 

“I don't know!” Greg almost bleats. The blood in his veins, hot and heavy, burns inside of him; it's as if a bit more and it will all burst out of him. He feels as if he needs to tell them everything, right now, and then run. Run anywhere, find cold - anything cold -, dig himself into the ice or fall into a freezing river - anything to calm the scorching lead they've replaced his blood with. “I don't know that... fucking... John Watson that well. I've shared a pint with him. Twice! Perhaps three times? Got the eyes of a killer, that one. Especially when he speaks of Sherlock. Seen plenty of those, the killer eyes, damn-it! How the hell should I know what's going on between those two?”

 

“So you agreed to commit a crime helping a slave to escape?” There’s a sincere curiosity in the interrogator's voice. Or something close to it.

 

“I didn't agree to anything!” Greg stubbornly contradicts. “I know that Sherlock Holmes used to solve crimes and that he still does. I had... fuck, good reasons to assume... that it had something to do with one of his cases! And I haven't been on a vacation for the past three years, wife's been whining that I need to rest, so...”

 

“And that's why you left your wife home?”

 

“She's cheating on me,” Greg confesses angrily. “Sherlock told me. What? What else do you want?”

 

“You're a good copper, Lestrade,” says the dark one who Greg has already labelled an investigator, although a mere police investigator wouldn't use such unorthodox methods. “You can clearly hold your own, but right now, you can't lie. You can tell half-truths, omit certain facts, but to lie outright is impossible. Tell me, Lestrade, what did you really think? What were your conclusions?”

 

“That the son of a bitch is manipulating me.” Greg lets out a string swear words. “That he's forcing me to break a law to organise his escape. That he wants me to do his dirty work for him.”

 

“Then why did you agree?”

 

“He said it was for Mycroft. I couldn't refuse.”

 

“Why not?” The investigator's voice still holds the same cold interest that somehow makes Greg feel better and he just wants to keep talking and talking.

 

“Because I owe him,” Greg spits out. “He got me out of trouble when I...” He pauses.

 

“Don't stop, Lestrade. It will be worse if you do.”

 

“I killed a guy once during an arrest. No one found out and nobody would ever. It was... five years ago now and Mycroft never once asked anything of me. Even helped me with the hospital for my daughter.”

 

“Are you aware that Mycroft Holmes is presently in a coma which makes him absolutely unable to, shall we say, cash in? And are you aware that Sherlock Holmes, as a slave, is in no position to complain about anything to anyone, let alone testify against a police inspector?”

 

“I'm aware,” Greg moans. His mood has changed yet again and now he wants to break out of his own skin, which is now prickling something awful, and howl like a dog, while a tiny, sober part of his consciousness is wondering in what other ways will the drug untie his tongue.

 

“Then why didn't you refuse?”

 

Why indeed. Right now, suffering from pain, fear, anger and all the senseless blur hazing up his mind, Greg's pretty sure that the reason is his spectacular stupidity. He should have refused. He was going to. That would have been a sensible, rational thing to do: he has a wife and kids, almost a flawless record. Why the hell would he dive into that bloody shit hole? And then he thought: what am I – a coward? For twenty years he hadn't cowered before his superiors nor criminals so why would he start now?

 

The words are torn from his mouth before he has time to consider them.

 

“But I couldn't, how could I?! Don't you get it? What are you – a human being or a machine? If I hadn't... Seven girls suffered... That son of a bitch! So I... And Nelly! If it hadn't been for him, Nelly would've been... What a sorry of excuse for a human being would I be if I hadn't helped his brother to escape? No, of course you don't get it. How can you? Damn it!”

 

  


 

Every question feels like tentacles of an octopus on his body. John has no idea if he's hallucinating or if they really breed the rubbery little buggers in this basement. The vile feelers are trying to force themselves into his mouth and nose, jab him mockingly in the corners of his eyes, their object obviously tearing the glass-like organs out with their muscles and nerves intact. But when John closes his eyes they blast the bright light in his face and tear open his eyelids.

 

If he answers a question, the pain will stop. The tentacles will go away. But then the body ocean will close its icy waves above him and suffocate him.

 

“During your service you reported the violations in storing pharmaceuticals twice within a six month period. Name the reasons for your report the second time.”

 

“How did you meet Sherlock Holmes?”

 

“Where did the idea of writing detective stories come from?”

 

“What was the name of the curator of the university you went to?”

 

“Why did you decide to buy Holmes when it clearly exceeded your financial means?”

 

“What was the falling out with your sister about?”

 

“When did your father die?”

 

“Why do you keep visiting Mycroft Holmes in the clinic?”

 

“You like Indian food, John. What's your favourite dish?”

 

“Before you moved out of Baker Street in December Sherlock Holmes was treated at the A&E twice. He paid in cash; who was responsible for the injuries?”

 

This is where John breaks down. He moans and almost cries, “Me! It was all me...” He wants to say that he hadn't wanted to, that Sherlock had asked him to, that he's not some kind of a sadist, for God's sake, but somehow, almost against his will, it gets out a bit differently, “He asked... I did it for him! He was bloody... gagging for it!” Then John remembers how Sherlock fell down the stairs, but manages to hold his tongue: a vague sense of Sherlock preferring them not to know is somewhere at the back of his head. John doesn't remember why, but that's somehow less important.

 

Having answered the question, his physical discomfort lessens to an almost manageable level.

 

“What do you know about Mycroft Holmes?”

 

“He's... the British government...”

 

“Very funny, Mr Watson. In what circumstances did you use to meet Mycroft Holmes before?”

 

“He... brought Sherlock... bombs...”

 

“Bombs?”

 

“Files. Cases. I called them bombs, because they always... exploded and Sherlock... I could lose him at any time, you know... They all wanted to take him from me... Mycroft wanted to take him from me, too, but in the end he didn't protect him, oh no, and now it's only me...”

 

“What do you know about Mycroft Holmes's current circumstances?”

 

“He can't breathe on his own. Couldn't before either, not a breath of fresh air around the man... and the ties he used to wear... If Sherlock weren't a slave he'd pull the plug. But it's his family, you know... I'm glad that Sherlock's a slave now... I'm glad.” John laughs hysterically and almost misses the slap they try to bring him back to his senses with. “I go forth and Sherlock follows...”

 

“What do you know about Mycroft Holmes's relationship with his brother?”

 

“Couldn't stand him. Never in his corner, that one. I've... a sister too, I know how it is. Doesn't matter... Who can live like that? And now he’s in a coma, the son of a bitch.”

 

The octopi are now turning into a jelly-like substance and are slowly creeping into his ears. The sounds have become muddy and heavy.

 

“What do you know about Doctor Rohan Desai?”

 

“Keep her out of it,” John mutters, his tongue thick. “She has nothing to do with it.”

 

'That's it then, isn't it,' John thinks sadly. 'That's all I'm good for now... I'm gonna let them down.' But he can't even remember of who are the 'they' he's letting down or how exactly is he doing it.

 

“Sherlock Holmes visited her clinic once, once you visited it yourself and then you went to her flat together.”

 

Twice? Really? No, don't think about the second time! They went very late and Sherlock insisted that they stay until past midnight, and then they took a taxi home.

 

“Tell me about the first visit.”

 

“Sherlock,” John’s tongue continues without his consent, “told me about her. Told me she's my type... Very lonely. And the second time... I thought – should I buy her flowers or not?.. I didn't. Ridiculous – me, giving her flowers.”

 

And it's all truth, of course: Sherlock did tell him that Dr Desai was his type and said she was unhappy. And John did contemplate giving her flowers, but the words are coming out his mouth by themselves and he's experiencing blind panic – what's happening? Is he actually losing himself? Are these false memories? Or is this how the fucking drug is playing with his brains?..

 

“Did you have sexual relations with Dr Desai?”

 

“No.” This one's easy. “She's not... like that. It wasn't about...”

 

“Did Sherlock Holmes have sexual relations with Dr Desai?”

 

At that John laughs, and then he's trembling and shaking in a whirlwind of hysterics. For some reason it's funny to imagine Sherlock next to the woman – she's just... kind of has too much of everything... too large breasts, too full lips, skin a shade too dark, rather thick eyelashes... And Sherlock's all... He's so scrawny, pale. And covered in bruises to boot, and when naked-

 

John's throat spasms, convulses, and for several seconds he seems to forget how to breathe. When the air comes, it feels like sandpaper in his throat. Breathing's boring? Painful, more like!

 

Then suddenly he can smell colours – it's an unpleasant odour, somewhat similar to ammonium. 'That's what it feels like,' John realises, 'a cognitive disorder. So, an idiot for life, huh? I bet I'll be wetting myself and stuff... Harry will probably send me to some kind of institution...'

 

And with this thought he's jerked back into consciousness in a blink of an eye, because - Harry! Because if John's legally incapacitated she's the one to inherit the ownership of Sherlock! Bloody hell! She's gonna... And he'll...

 

“Where is Sherlock Holmes now?” the voice repeats again. “When did you last see him and what did you think of his behaviour at the time?”

 

At this point John finally loses the last thread of his coherent thoughts. Everything is a blur, muddled and sliding sideways. John springs up from the chair and straight at the lamp. He's vaguely surprised at his success, because the room careens to its side, behind John's left shoulder, the lamp slams him in the face, and in the streaked light John sees somebody's wide opened eyes behind a pair of spectacles with scratched lenses – oh, those bloody bastards!

 

“He's mine!” John screams, trying to break the handcuffs, the bonds; alas, they hold. “He's mine, do you hear me? You can't touch him! He didn't do it! He's my slave! A slave! He couldn't have done anything! Let me go, I have to find him! You bloody bastards! Damn arseholes! Leave him alone!”

 

Later, after several kicks to the ribs and kidneys, after he's finally realised that he can't break free, John only begs and pleads, smearing his blood and tears of rage all over his face; he's jerking this way and that, oblivious to the hands holding him, to walls surrounding him. The cold voice in his ear is still asking something about Mycroft, but John can't, won't listen to it. Bloody Mycroft... The hell with him... What does he matter, when Sherlock's missing and they won't let him... they're...

 

“Please, let me see him,” John moans, lying on the floor. “Or let him go. You don't have to let me go. Let him. No, don't! He's a slave, he can't be out there...”

 

“Enough. Time to wrap this up,” says a voice full of boredom.

 

Raising his weary, bloodshot eyes, John manages to glimpse a silhouette of a short, overweight man in a good suit. With a walking stick. What's up with that? Them, with their umbrellas and stuff...

 

 

“Are you sure, sir?” a quiet voice utters. In John's inflamed brain such fine-tuned respectful pauses can only come out of a very well-trained personal assistant of a government official. “He could be faking it.”

 

“Watson has no such talent. No, I believe that this primitive little soul is, in fact, all there is to see – a possessive maniac with a fixation on Sherlock Holmes.”

 

“Not actually that rare for an ex-military. Especially if you take into account the repressed homosexual tendencies...” a third voice adds. Or should he call it the first voice? The four-eyed interrogator.

 

The man with the walking stick lets out a put-on sigh, as if wanting to snicker, but being too well raised to actually do so. “I know Holmes,” he continues then. “The little mise–en–scène, we just witnessed, means that he really is broken. Holmes is too proud and arrogant; there is no way he would step on the throat of his own dignity and just play at being a slave, especially under such a master.”

 

John thinks someone might have touched him with his foot, but by this point his body hardly feels anything and he wouldn't try crawl away even if he weren't tied.

 

“Clean this up,” the same voice says with disdain. “Give him an antidote and ditch him somewhere. I'm sure we don't need to worry about him causing us any further trouble.”

 

“With all due respect, sir – are you sure it's not one of Holmes's distracting manoeuvres? The timing can't be a coincidence. Perhaps we shouldn't...? And that Detective Inspector in Switzerland... Just as a precaution...?”

 

Then something rattles, trembles and a door slams open.

 

“What is it?” the main voice asks irritably. It’s the guy with the cane. “Can't it wait? Oh...” A paper rustling, a tapping of a cane. “You see, Samuel,” he opines, unconcerned. “As I suspected, the body was found in Clapton. So it couldn't possibly have been a distracting manoeuvre. It seems that our dear Jim had over-estimated his vis-à-vis.”

 

‘What? A body!?’ If John would have any strength left he wouldn't waste it on screaming. He'd leap up from the floor and go straight for the jugular of that... the one with the cane. But there's not even strength for a whisper.

 

Half an hour later John's sitting on the pavement somewhere in East End, crying and repeating stupidly, “Sherlock... let him go, you bastards...”

 

  


 

Gregory Lestrade's head is made of lead, his eye sockets of fire itself. His arms and legs feel like having been buried in snow up to elbows and knees. With some effort and a groan he manages to get upright. Nevertheless, some leaning his back to the white bed covers is necessary while he thoughtlessly stares at the wall opposite. What a fascinating pattern that wallpaper has, damn it... Every half an hour or so, a new thought forms in his consciousness.

 

“Did they really leave...? They left... now what? … are they going to press charges? ...they make people slaves for helping a slave escape. ...but I haven't helped anyone...”

 

Icy cold air seeps in from the window, slightly ajar. Greg stands up and leaning onto the mattress like an old man, takes a few steps. The poster bed turns out to be pretty convenient walking-aid.

 

Suddenly the window frame squeaks and moves upwards. Into the opening gap, where the darkness has been quite for some time now firmly established, appears one more dark-clothed figure, and slips quietly in. And once more Greg doesn't manage to react in time, but this time around it's not important, because when the visitor removes their back hat, it reveals light closely-cut hair and a girly, quite youthful, face. The girl smiles and puts her finger to her lips.

 

“Who are you?” Greg manages.

 

“I don't speak English,” his guest says in a strong German accent. “Follow me. The password is Sally Donovan's knees.”

 

Greg feels the need to swear, but holds himself back – there's a young lady in the room. Then he thinks, blast, it's not as if she understands him, and lets it all out. The girls smiles and beckons him to the window.

Greg glances outside, and indeed, there's a plank placed between his window and the attic of the building on the other side of the street. A god-awfully common, untreated plank with splinters. And the girl is already handing him a climbing harness.

 

 

In the end John Watson makes it home. It's not easy: East End is an area of business, very active. A well-dressed man sitting on a sidewalk with a blank face is discovered almost momentarily; they want to call an ambulance.

 

“I've... a relative missing,” John says. “I'm going to the police. Let me go this moment or I'll punch you.”

 

They let him go.

 

Getting to the Underground also turns out to be a challenge – several times John has to stop, recite the multiplication table and hold his hand to his chest. Thankfully, Londoners are a patient folk and simply go round. Only one young man who, John thinks, looks like a med student (Sherlock's methods starting working for him?) asks him if he's all right.

 

John shakes his head, realises that he doesn't need the Underground, and sits on the wrong bus - he almost makes it all the way to Baker Street. It's only one incident though and he barely loses half an hour over it. Still, on the whole, the fog is starting to fade. When he reaches the flat, it's not yet all clear, but gradually his brain is starting to come online.

 

There is no way he can tell the police about the kidnapping. Not all of his and Sherlock's recent actions have been strictly speaking lawful and should they start digging... The cold-blooded fiend with a cane was right about that.

 

So whose corpse was found in Clapton...? Can't be Sherlock's. It just can't... And if it is... They'd found Irene Adler's corpse once too, so what? Later it turned out she'd been alive – died only after – and bad habits can be addictive. No, Sherlock's alive, until proven otherwise... Until John sees his body with his own two eyes.

 

The topic is too horrible to contemplate, so John stops. Instead, he focuses on how to get the toxins out of his body as quickly as possible, because who knows what kind of shit is currently swimming in his veins... Especially since it's forbidden to use it on free people. It's probably morphine-based, at least that's what it felt like. In any case, he should be able to level out the symptoms by speeding up the work of his kidneys and liver.

 

John gets a packet of powdered caffeine out of his medicine kit, pours it into a glass, fills two-thirds of the glass with sugar and finishes the concoction with mineral water. He drinks the disgusting mixture almost choking and he has to keep his hand on his mouth after every gulp. Then John takes in plenty of water and contemplates adding a diuretic into the mix, but decides to skip it – what if he needs to suddenly run off somewhere. The fuzz in his head clears up a little.

 

When the phone rings, John is sitting on the floor, his head leaning on the bed (his and Sherlock's). Finally he's feeling almost comfortable and almost nothing hurts. He's thinking if it's worth getting up for, but then does and somehow crawls to the phone.

 

“John!” the cheerful voice of Lucy Riddle, the head nurse, peals out. “There was a phone call for you.”

 

Sluggishly, John tries to remember if he has to be at work today. Theoretically everything is clear: Sherlock went missing on Thursday evening, he’s supposed to be free on Friday and most of the Saturday, Saturday evening to Sunday he's on duty. The rest of the Sunday, he probably has off... But John has no idea what day it is. Seems to be Friday evening, but who knows, it could be Saturday.

 

“Lucy,” John mumbles, “You should probably let Dr Dobson know that I won't make it today.”

 

“You have today off, silly,” she giggles. “You've been celebrating, I take it?”

 

“No. I’ve not been well.”

 

“Really? Then how come you weren't home?”

 

“How do you know that?”

 

“That's what I'm telling you – there was a phone call for you. They tried your home number first, but when they couldn't reach you, they called us. It was just a couple of hours ago. My shift's almost over, but I decided to try one more time, so you owe me one.”

 

“You're a treasure, Lucy,” he unwittingly tells her. “One of these day's I'll steal you from Mr Riddle, just so you know. Who was it? The police?”

 

“The police?” Lucy sounds surprised. “No. It was Slave and Large Animal Control, but not in London. It was from-” She's rustling with paper. “Found it. From Newcastle. John – do you have a slave?”

 

John can hear a sincere amazement in her voice. Strange. He was sure the whole hospital knew. On the other hand, when asked, he always teld them that the J. Watson writing in The Strand is merely a namesake. Perhaps they believed him?

 

“I don't,” John replies, all but shouting at her 'Where is he?!' His heart rate is working overtime, trying to break out if his chest. “He's my sister's. She's asked me to... look after him.”

 

“And look what a fine job you've done,” she snickers. “They found him, uncollared, in a somewhat shady situation, I was told. I have a number for you to call back from eight-thirty to six.”

 

John checks his watch and by some miracle, it's not quite six yet. He'd thought it was close to midnight. “Give me the number,” he replies in a tense voice.

 

A helpful, although very obviously hurrying to finish up her shift, woman explained to him that his slave was caught while trying to board a passenger ship to France without a ticket. Since the slave refused to identify himself, the standard protocol was engaged – they checked the tattoo and found the owner in the record system. The missing slave form had already arrived in the morning, that's why everything happened so quickly, Mr Watson… Medical check-up showed the slave to be in a satisfactory condition, so he could be retrieved within the week in working hours, but Mr Watson should be forewarned that they start counting the cost of the slave's up-keeping from the moment they identify the owner and at the moment it amounts to... Yes, they are open on Saturdays, but only from eight to five and unfortunately they are closed on Sunday... He can either bring them the ownership certificate himself, along with his passport and the fine for his slave having been caught without a collar, or mail them the request for having his slave sent up to their London division. After receiving the request with the prepaid check for the fine and the slave's up-keep we will send the delivery within three weekdays. Though you should also let us know over the phone, I can make a note right now if... You'll come yourself? Very well, Mr Watson, we will be expecting you...

 

Despite the residual effects of the drug, John takes the night train to Newcastle. He even has the presence of mind to grab the collar and the money along with the documents. On the train he crashes into deep sleep, but is thankfully woken up in time. Then he somehow manages to crash again at the station while standing up: he rests leaning on the wall and with a hot dog in his hand. When the clock finally strikes eight, he starts clambering up the newly frosted steep, narrow streets of ancient Newcastle. Fortunately, the office for capturing strays and slaves (or whatever its name was) is situated, as promised by the map he bought at the station, not far.

 

There he does everything through a foggy film of unreality: demonstrates the collar, pays the fine. It seems surreal that Sherlock is indeed waiting for him here, alive and well. Or moderately well, because 'satisfactory condition' probably means that all his limbs are attached at least.

 

Next, John is led through a narrow hall and ushered through an unpainted wooden door with a small square window. Sherlock is inside. For some reason John expects him to be sitting on a cot, but there is no cot to speak of – only some mattresses on the floor. Sherlock is the only one inside though. He's lying in a foetal position on a mattress in the corner. When the door opens, Sherlock jerks and lifts his head in the same motion.

 

“See,” the woman in a blue uniform skirt and a white blouse says in a sweet voice. “Your master's come for you, Sherlock. Come now, say hello. You know, like it shows on the poster, remember?”

 

John would have been spitting and seething had anyone used that condescending tone with him. She could be talking to a very slow child. How come Sherlock hasn't chewed her up yet? Or is he still playing at whatever he was playing at before... Or... What's wrong with him?

 

Sherlock gets up very slowly as if in pain or discomfort. Banged up? He's wearing a grey, out of shape t-shirt (John's), extremely bright, but dirty windbreaker (unfamiliar to John), track pants and trainers. He steps up to John and the woman, his eyes on the floor and frowning in visible discomfort, kneels down - first on one knee, then the other.

 

John's mind goes blank. Fuck. It's happening again. Again. He thought he'd never have to... John wants to punch Sherlock - hard; put all his strength behind it, to shatter him against the opposite wall. Why is Sherlock doing this to him? And at the same time he wants to pull Sherlock up off the floor and press his nose into the other man's neck, breathe him in (even if he has been crawling through gutters for two days) and hold him. And not let go.

 

He could, of course, do both even in the woman's presence. Sherlock is his slave, his possession. People do get furious with their things and sometimes they get attached to them. The thought sobers him.

 

“Good. Would you like to put the collar back now?” the woman suggests politely. She adds in a whisper, “It usually calms them right down. Reflex.”

 

'Stop it!' John tries to tell himself. 'It's Sherlock. You know Sherlock – he's doing this on purpose, right? Just look at him – is he helpless? His shoulders are wider than yours, his muscles are all there even if he has lost some weight, and he fights better than you, even. When by the rules – definitely better – or with a sword or something. He was right, Watson – you are a hypocrite. You're thinking of him as a slave, you are making him helpless in your thoughts, destroying his willpower. Just put the collar on - that's what he wants.'

 

But John knows that he can't. He just can't do it. Sherlock, in the meanwhile, continues kneeling on the bare floor, his curly head bowed. Irrationally, John suddenly feels a keen need to put Sherlock in a bath, so he just reaches out his hands towards Sherlock and Sherlock grasps them. He takes John's wrists, circles them with his fingers and holds them lightly. He holds them the whole time it takes John to clasp the collar on; for some reason he can't do it on the first try.

 

“See? Isn't that nice?” the woman asks Sherlock and then turns to John in a confidential tone, “He was so restless during the night, couldn't sit still, banged on the walls. Was afraid you'd punish him, I think. The doctor said he's been knocked around a bit, he might not be completely himself yet. Don't be too harsh with him, all right?”

 

“All right,” John replies, “I won't.”

 

  


 

Almost unnoticed by the sparse morning crowd Sherlock manages to guide John into the public toilets. 

 

“They have B&B not far from here. How much money did you take?”

 

John shakes his head. He took all they had at home, but didn't count what was left after paying the fine. He doesn't even know how much he paid.

 

“Two sleepless nights,” Sherlock hotly mutters into John's ear. “Interrogation while intoxicated. Fucking Winston! One of these days I'll make sure he'll get the double dose of the same... No, triple! Unlikely that you'll make it into London in this shape. Not without me carrying you and we can't draw attention to ourselves; they could still be watching.

 

“Come on, John. Pull yourself together! There's no way I can seem as an efficient and obliging slave – it's psychologically unsound. John, I need you to take a room for a day. That's all. Let me see...” He takes John's wallet. “Yes, that'll be enough. Shame you didn't buy return tickets, but it still will be enough.”

 

Sherlock speaks too quickly, his eyes, red from apparent wakefulness, move restlessly back and forth. John simply stares at him in stunned amazement. He just wants to listen to Sherlock's voice. And listen and listen and listen...

 

Sherlock kisses him. It's only a peck, but it still goes through John like a powerful blast after which there can only be silence.

 

“Let's go,” Sherlock says.

 

And John goes.

 

  


 

Amazingly enough, at the other end of the ice-covered plank is an attic very similar to the one Lestrade just left behind. The difference is that the room is filled with all kinds of radio- and communication equipment, behind which – again – a fairly young lad is making himself busy. What is this operation – run by a bunch of bleedin' kids?

 

The lad anxiously glances at Greg and the girl and says something in German. The girl answers in a soothing tones, lowers the window frame and gestures for Greg to follow. She leads him one flight down and leaves him before a half-open door. She motions him to enter, but walks past the door herself.

 

Greg is standing, not knowing what to do when a voice comes from inside of the room.

 

“Please come in, Detective Inspector.”

 

The voice is familiar. Too familiar even. Greg purses his lips and goes in.

 

Inside, it’s an ordinary bedroom – a bit larger than the one Greg just left, and less impersonal. On the wall it has a round rug, covered in fancy embroidery, and in the corner there is something that looks like an old sewing machine hidden under a white sheet. Greg's granny used to have something similar. By the messy bed there’s a two-tiered side-table on wheels, which is cluttered with drug bottles and syringes in tubes, apparently serving currently as a medical trolley.

 

Beside the bed, in a low and obviously uncomfortable armchair is sitting, wrapped into a grey bleak blanket, a gloomy and rather dishevelled figure of Mycroft Holmes himself. Sitting. By himself. And he must have been talking too not a minute ago.

 

“Thought you were a vegetable,” Greg blurts.

 

“Thank you, Detective Inspector, you don't look too bad yourself.”

 

In truth, the elder Holmes, the bane of DI Lestrade's existence, looks like hell. His pallor is greyish white, there are bags under his eyes and his forehead is covered in sheen of sweat and he seems to be shivering.

“How did you... What...?” Greg attempts.

 

“Could you, please, keep it down, Detective Inspector?” Holmes grimaces. “I, of course, feel deeply indebted to you for all the help you've provided Sherlock with, but I also happen to be suffering from a severe case of a migraine – a direct result of all the drugs, apparently. I would be extremely grateful if you could just temperate the volume of your vocal cords.”

 

This is what Greg will never understand. You could be in a process of severing a limb form a Holmes and they'd still find it in themselves to use the most precise phrases and a roundabout sentence structures.

 

“When did you come out of a coma?” Greg moves on. “Why are you in Switzerland and what do you want from me?”

 

“I was brought out of coma this morning. They started to last night already, while rescuing me from the clinic. I was transported to Switzerland in a roundabout way which right now is of no importance. I am here first to recuperate, second to gather information, and third to strategize. As you can see, I am dealing with it all simultaneously and as efficiently and quickly as the circumstances allow. You, Detective Inspector, are a part of the second and the third stage of my agenda.”

 

“All right then.” Greg sits, in the absence of other surfaces, on the bed. “Talk.”

 

 

“I suggest you go to bed and sleep for about ten hours straight,” Sherlock opines, taking in the impersonal hotel room.

 

“I have a shift tonight.” John shakes his curiously empty head.

 

“You'll be useless in this state anyway. Better call in sick. Or I can. You've got a good reputation there; they won't think any worse of you, if that's what you are worried about.”

 

Sherlock's tone perfectly conveys what he thinks of the relevance of one's reputation, the lack of it and all the rest of the tedious mundane rigmarole. The situation was so familiar that John wants to weep of joy. Even so he has the presence of mind to intone, “First, you'll have shower. And I'll have a shower and then you'll tell me everything.”

 

In the end, they take that shower together, because Sherlock insists on John having a slight concussion (when did he manage to get it - when he fell with the chair?) and may slip on the wet tiles. The narrow shower box is only built for one and there's nothing erotic about sharing it, but for some reason John simply can't keep his hands off Sherlock. There's something panicky swimming around in his head, babbling about the long-term effects of the drug, imprinting, Stockholm syndrome (because it was Sherlock tormenting John all this time anyway), and so back and so forth.

 

Cool water does clear John's head a bit, so when they come out of the shower he demands an explanation from Sherlock, who seems to become so disgustingly domestic that he expropriates the only dressing gown they can find in the room. John doesn't let himself be irritated for long, however, and wraps himself into a blanket (it's not Sherlock's prerogative to walk around pantless in a sheet, is it?). Unless the room is bugged...

 

“You are paranoid,” Sherlock jerks his head. “We can't be bugged – we chose this place completely randomly.”

 

“It's the closes place to the Slave Control Offices.”

 

“No one knew I would be in a slammer. No, John. You're wrong.”

 

“But you were followed! You even had those dreams, you said...“

 

“Not exactly. Anyway, there are no bugs and even if there were, we already gave away the whole plan the moment we stepped into this room.”

 

“Er... How?”

 

“By you not beating me up first and fucking me second.”

 

“Perhaps I should have,” John wonders in a fit of acrid sarcasm. “Just say the word, Sherlock, and I will.”

 

Sherlock seems to take his words seriously. “It's not necessary any more, but after I tell you everything, I'll understand if you'll want to express your feelings... shall we say, in a physical fashion.”

 

John sighs. “All right. Hit me.” Right now, the only thing John feels is exhaustion.

 

“Fine. Let's start with the fact that Mycroft was never in coma.”

 

 

“I never actually was, as you so eloquently put it, in a vegetative state,” Mycroft explains. “I was, however, under the influence of strong sedatives which simulated the said state. It was orchestrated by my old-time foe and rival whose name at this point is... Or why not... Winston from the Home Office. At one point he even employed our mutual friend, Jim Moriarty, now as I've been told, deceased.”

 

“He is. I've seen the body,” Greg agrees. “I even gave it a kick just in case.”

 

Holmes nods with a notable indifference.

 

“At any rate,” he continues. “They worked together. The whole scheme to neutralise my brother was the result of the said collaboration. And although they both pursued their own goals, Moriarty's fixation on Sherlock proved extremely beneficial for Winston who quite rightly judged him to be one of my rare weaknesses. Thus the operation against me was carried out in parallel with the operation to neutralise my brother. As far as I understand, they seem to have succeeded in both endeavours – Sherlock is now formally a slave.”

 

Greg opens his mouth to comment on the 'formal' part of Sherlock's slavery, but closes it again.

 

“My life, on the other hand, has been spared because Winston needs my access information.”

 

“Your access to what?” Greg doesn't so much interrupt as dutifully fills the dramatic pause that a good professor might purposefully leave for his student.

 

“Have you heard the abbreviation ECM?”

 

“My wife's initial before marriage,” Greg instantly replies. “Now she's E. C. L.”

 

Holmes expression almost resembles amazement. “ECM is Electronic Computing Machine,” he explains after a pause. “A device capable of storing and analysing large quantities of information. It's an experimental project and I am the only one to have access to one of the information banks of the device. It's... difficult to explain, but the important part is that it is impossible to access without a password or destroying the device, which stores the information.”

 

“I'm confused.“ Greg rubs his head. “I'm sorry, Mr Holmes, I'm getting too old for all this new nonsense. Access and passwords... What is this... device? Some kind of adding machine?”

 

“Do not exaggerate, Detective Inspector, you are only six months my senior.” Mycroft makes a face as if he's got a toothache. “Unless I remember your date of birth wrong. After the long months of sedatives, my memory likes acting up. In any case, you don't have to understand it. It's enough for you to take on faith that some of the developed strategies against one of our potential foreign enemies-” 'Soviet Union' Greg immediately thinks, 'or USNA', “-would be totally inaccessible without your humble servant. In the event of my passing all these plans and strategies would have to be simply written off, because they were compiled and encoded by myself personally. Winston needs these plans to win a round or two in his political games, that is why he risked – instead of simply killing me he placed me under a kind of permanent supervision.”

 

“I don't understand...” Greg mutters. “But you were... in a regular clinic. A private one, yes, but still, just a hospital. I heard that John... John Watson visited you regularly. And well... The newspapers wrote about it.”

 

“Oh yes, Winston, no doubt, would have preferred to place me in one of his infamous basements.” Mycroft smirks. “Fortunately I'm still a too well known a figure in certain circles to have just vanished – or even killed – without questions. That's why an ordinary private clinic, respectable doctors, visiting hours. Personnel was, of course, replaced, bought off or simply intimidated into compliance. I guess Dr Watson – a GP – was regarded harmless and respectable enough to offer a public alibi, so to speak.”

 

“And that can be done?” Greg marvels. “Imagine how much money it must have taken.”

 

“You are clearly underestimating the scale of the operation and the stakes involved,” Holmes states drily.

 

After an uncomfortable silence where he restlessly shifts on the bed, he's sitting on, Greg says, “So... What happened then? How did you escape? Sherlock...?”

 

“Sherlock.” Mycroft nods. “I can't be sure how he managed to get into my room - Winston must have left orders to forbid it. Perhaps with time his role as a slave made him seem harmless to the medical personnel. They might have relaxed around him at some point and Sherlock noticed a discrepancy with the treatment procedures or the list of drugs which, no doubt, was carefully concealed from Dr Watson. By that point my brother might not have yet realised the whole scope of the situation he'd got into with Moriarty – Sherlock tends to delude himself on occasion and every so often it can last for a considerable time. However, the discovery must have been a shattering experience to sober him up. He must have realised that he won't be able to defeat his opponents nor return to his previous life without my help. It's highly doubtful that there were any other considerations at play when he organised my rescue from the clinic.”

 

“Don't talk like that, Mr Holmes!” Greg shakes his head. “He's your brother, family. I'm sure even he understands that.”

 

“I think that we understand family differently, Detective Inspector.” Holmes's tone is dry. “On the other hand, you're right. Holmeses are not in the habit of leaving their family in trouble. As for the rest of it, I haven't put the whole picture together yet.

 

“I know that Sherlock managed to get in touch with the abolitionist movement and do them a great enough service to ensure their help in transporting me out of the country. It was reasonable of him; they have worked out routes and procedures and have experienced operatives. I also know that he organised my escape entirely remotely while setting up a number of misleading manoeuvres himself. One of them was the murder of Lawrence Tucker, whose name you probably won't have heard. The fact that I am here right now and also that Winston's people let you go after a relatively short and painless interrogation shows that Sherlock's plan was at least partly a success.“

 

“What do you mean painless?” Greg blows up. “What was that rubbish they injected me with? I thought that the truth serum either fries your brains or is entirely fictional. And why the hell are you sitting in the next house from the commandos? How-”

 

“Operating under the enemy's nose is my brother's favourite method,” Holmes mutters. “Besides, there's a good chance no one will ever know that you left your room at all. You are sure to be watched, but this is probably a too simple way for them to discover. I deeded to see you. You are my only source from England right now.” 'To hear about Sherlock,' Greg translates. “Which after-effects are you experiencing?”

 

“Headache, dry mouth, a slight disorientation in space, slower reaction time,” he lists. “I think that's it.”

 

“About the dryness. There's a water pitcher on that table over there. Drink. I don't think it was the truth serum.

 

 

“There's no such thing as the truth serum,“ Sherlock huffs. “You were injected with some regular opiates, possibly mixed with something. And when they ask a string of rapid questions combined with confusing physical reactions... What else? Bright lights, disorientation – you were carried to the interrogation room, weren't you? Basically, it's a standard, but quite effective technique which gets reasonably accurate results, especially if the subject is unprepared.”

 

“Bloody hell,” John moans, “So that's why I didn't tell them about Rohan and her lawyer! I thought it was a miracle or something. I even thought...” John halts, embarrassed.

 

“You thought what?”

 

“I thought that maybe you hypnotised me or something like that.” John looks away. “I remember you were interested in the technique at one time.”

 

Sherlock huffs.

 

“I don’t think you are too easily hypnotized. Besides, the results of the research on using hypnotics simultaneously with drugs tend to be rather contradicting… In any case, I conclude that you didn’t give Morsten and Desai away simply because you didn’t want to. You are very loyal, John. It’s one of your best and also your worst characteristics. I counted on it, though. There was a certain risk, of course; that is why it’s so lucky they are not currently in the country.”

 

“They knew?” If John were less exhausted, he’d probably be yelling.

 

“No, of course not. But that the set-off date of their trip as well as their return were contingent with my approval has always been a part of my deal with them. I disliked the idea that they could be apprehended because of the Movement; they could very well give us away. It would be a shame to work so hard and then fail because of stupidity of others.”

 

“And the rest of it? How...? I…” John thinks it through and then spits it out, “I don’t remember much of what happened, but what I bloody well do remember is that apparently I did behave as a ‘maniac with a fixation on Holmes’ as that - what’s-his-name - Winston put it. I thought about it on the train - if it wasn’t hypnosis, then what was it?”

 

“I…” Sherlock apparently had some decency to look slightly guilty. “I’m afraid that I have been, so to say, putting certain ideas into your head, John. All this time… It was one of the two distracting manoeuvres.

“Winston would have suspected me in any case, that was a given from the start, so it was essential that he would not find anything that would confirm his suspicions. Which means that I had to look like the most ordinary of slaves: beaten and broken. But with you as my master? No one who knows us both - and thanks to The Strand, it’s the whole population of London - would believe it.”

 

It was about here that John noticed how all the traces of guilt gradually vanished from Sherlock’s tone and he continued in his usual excitement of explaining a puzzle.

 

“Nevertheless, people change and mask that they have done so, especially after a psychological trauma. It was imperative that you gave an impression of a person who so far, has been successfully repressing his abnormal tendencies, but after gaining full power over a slave, they broke free. It wasn’t so difficult, since people had already decided that you must be insane to have not only agreed to share a flat with me, but also stayed put after a week.

 

“I couldn’t share my plans with you though, I knew there would be an interrogation and you had to look genuine, but you are not an actor, John. You wouldn’t be able to fool Winston. So I… Well, the nightmares, the talk of being watched - it was all necessary to create a certain level of anxiety in you. Of course, due to my changed status, and even more, because of all the hypocrisy surrounding it, you were already on edge, so it didn’t take much to achieve the desired effect. Soon, your observable behaviour started to fit the pattern of the crazy sadistic slave owner. I think... for that, I have to apologise.”

 

“Have to?” Words seemed to be crawling towards John’s consciousness. “You mean… You don’t actually feel guilty?”

 

“It was the safest way.” Sherlock’s tone is flat. “Winston has almost unlimited resources and his intelligence is almost equal to mine. Or Mycroft’s. Otherwise he’d never have got us. The only advantage I had was because of his biased understanding of a slave automatically being powerless and harmless to him. Besides, Winston can’t stand Mycroft, and his dearest wish is to see me broken and lost; that is why he gave Moriarty the idea of forcing me into slavery.”

 

“What do you mean - was this planned?” John looks at the ceiling and frowns. “I thought… it was just an unfortunate circumstance…”

 

“No. I was given a choice.” Sherlock’s voice is hard. “It was either standing before the court of law with a predetermined result of being convicted, or fleeing the country and getting you, Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade killed. I knew that until I destroyed Moriarty’s web, there was no way I could have changed my name (not even illegally) or travel to Kenya, as you so kindly offered. The problem was that I had no idea who was watching us and how. I couldn’t put you all at risk like that. It was only later that I realised that there was no such a web and that Moriarty really was just a lone consultant for hire who had occasional dealings with Winston.

 

“My God,” John groans and buries his face in his hands.

 

“You told me you trusted me,” Sherlock says in a voice devoid of any emotion. “I admit, might have abused that trust.”

 

“What was the other one?”

 

“The other one what?”

 

“You said there were two distracting manoeuvres. What was the other one?”

 

“The second manoeuvre was necessary for you and Lestrade to be released as soon as possible. I made sure that suspicion in kidnapping Mycroft from the hospital would fall on alternative parties who are also interested in gaining access to the database: military intelligence. There was this man, Lawrence Tucker. He worked for the military and the abolitionists both. The first he provided with intelligence and from the second got their discarded weapons. On the side, he also ran some errands for Winston.”

 

“Jack of all trades, that one,” John mutters. “I note you said ‘was’. I’m guessing he’s kicked it?”

 

“Correct. I exposed him to the Movement - provided them with definitive proof and they dealt with him.”

 

As if with a mental click, the last piece of the puzzle inserted itself into the picture. “The body in Clapton?”

 

“Why in Clapton?” Sherlock asks with surprise. “Or… if they got him in… Yes, Clapton is quite possible, Probable even. How did you know?”

 

“Winston spoke about it before he chucked me out. Why, by the way? Why did that body result in them letting me go? Frankly, I thought it was yours.”

 

“Oh no.” Sherlock shakes his head. “If the body were mine, he’d be more likely to hold you for even more thorough interrogation. Tucker’s body, on the other hand, showed him that it was military intelligence who betrayed him to the abolitionists, because they didn’t need his intelligence any more. The abolitionist would hardly have given him away - they still needed him.

 

“And the reason for the army discarding Tucker? Simple: they either found a better information source or they are preparing for a big operation, which could, again, only happen due to another source. If Winston hadn’t already been absolutely convinced that I’m completely broken he might have realised that I’d had a hand in it, but combined with the first distracting manoeuvre, everything works as planned.”

 

“So it worked?” John asks without raising his head. “Mycroft is safe and we are above suspicion?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“So what now?”

 

 

“Now…” Mycroft Holmes sighs. “Tomorrow you are going to board a train and go home to England. And I am going to stay here. I’m afraid I have some health issues to deal with. And then… It seems I have some debt I need to repay.”

 

Mycroft Holmes does, indeed, look ill and broken, especially wrapped in that god-awful grey blanket. Still, when he mentions his debt, the predatory smile on his lips makes Lestrade shiver. It’s not the first time Greg thanks his good luck that he’d found a way to cooperate with the Holmes brothers all those years ago; that he hadn’t gone against the the pair: the younger, so incredibly annoying and the elder, the other’s obscure, but threatening shadow.

 

There’s one question Greg can’t hold back though. “But what about… Sherlock?”

 

“What about Sherlock?” Mycroft makes a face. “It’s been more than half… I apologise, almost a year now (I guess I should probably take into account my health situation) that I haven’t kept an eye on my brother as thoroughly as I have been and it turns out that Dr Watson and him manage quite well on their own.”

 

Lestrade has a feeling that he can hear a slight parental envy underneath the calm tone, but he ignores it.

 

“Well, about that…” he says. He pauses, thinking of how and even if he even should talk about it. “It’s… I mean, the way he was when he came to me… and the reason he sent me here…”

 

“Ah…” Mycroft taps his fingers on the arms of his chair. As always he seems to have caught on without Greg having to elaborate. “Yes, of course. Tell me, Detective Inspector, can you really see my brother in a role of an abused housewife?”

 

“I’ve seen stranger things,” Greg insists stubbornly. “I wouldn’t have believed that John could… But you know, the situation… Especially when… you know, with relationships…. And Sherlock - he’s…”

 

“What you’re trying to say is that he’s very unpredictable and may affect people in very unexpected ways? Yes, I agree, that is a fair assessment. But my dear Detective Inspector, had my brother indeed fallen a victim to the Stockholm syndrome, he would certainly have enough pride to keep out of your way. He’d have found another courier, rest assured. Besides, do you really think that a broken man would’ve been able to carry out such a plan? Really, Detective Inspector - I am quite sure that the reason Sherlock has remained a slave for such a long time is that at first he feared repercussions from Moriarty’s nonexistent underlings, and later he simply discovered some advantages to his new positions.”

 

Greg frowns. “What are you talking about?”

 

He has of course heard homilies on the ease and comfort of a slave life, but he would never have believed that Mycroft Holmes would subscribe to it.

 

“What do you think?” Mycroft sighs. “About freedom from society. About being finally able to shrug off all public sensibilities. Sherlock has always tried to put Watson between himself and all the other people, and now it has happened almost without him lifting a finger to make it happen. I think he might already have learned to appreciate the situation and will hardly put an effort into breaking down these particular walls.”

 

Lestrade takes a moment. And then says with admiration, “You’re one bloody ingeniously cold-hearted bastard! And your brother is the same.”

 

Holmes smiles understandingly. “Thank you, Detective Inspector. I know.”

 

 

“This farce will have to go on, of course. We stay at this bloody modern monstrosity of the apartment and keep a low profile. Probably for some time.” Sherlock tone is fast, but measured, and John is not fooled for a second about his deliberate show of tranquility. “I don’t think Mycroft’s return to the political scene can be fast, especially considering that most likely he will soon be declared dead. But there’s no chance in hell he will leave it like this. It might come to the two of us having to cooperate.”

 

Finally John lifts his eyes to Sherlock. His gaze feels heavy, but stubbornly he looks: Sherlock is sitting in an uncomfortable armchair, in a dressing gown a size too small, obviously trying to seem at ease, but John knows him too well. Sherlock is tense.

 

“What I meant-” John has to swallow. “How are we going to...?”

 

“You can hit me,” Sherlock says calmly. “By this point it would only be right. I used you without your consent, forced you through some extremely painful experiences, but the worst of all is that you still cannot get rid of me. At least not in a way which wouldn’t contradict your moral code.”

 

With a groan, John half-falls on the bed. Just a moment of respite from all of this… Just for a second.

 

“My gun’s in my clothes somewhere. Get it, please.”

 

God knows what Sherlock thinks of the order, but he obediently gets up and John can hear the rustle of clothes and the sound of his armchair being moved. Sherlock seems to find the revolver quickly, returns to the bed and hands the gun over.

 

John allows their fingers to touch while he accepts the handle, and sits up.

 

“Lie down.” His voice sounds hoarse - it’s difficult to make his vocal cords work.

 

“Decided to shoot me, have you?” Sherlock asks drily. “A solution, for sure. But I’m afraid I can’t let you do this. As much as I would like to.”

 

“What?” At first John doesn’t even get what Sherlock is talking about. “Don’t be an idiot. You haven’t slept in fuck knows how long and I had a shut-eye on the train. I’ll keep watch - in this same bloody chair.”

 

“It’s not necessary, John. No one’s coming.”

 

“Perhaps you’re right. But I can’t just… I can’t… Sherlock - you disappeared. Again. They could have… again… I simply won’t be able to… To get rid of you…? You were brilliant, Sherlock! Once more you were absolutely brilliant - this plan - a cruel one, yes, but… It’s like bloodletting, how can you not get it? Fuck, Sherlock… ”

 

At this point Sherlock finally sits down next to John, embraces him. He takes the gun out of John’s unresisting fingers and kisses his temple.

 

“Sleep,” he utters quietly. “You need it more. It’s my turn to keep watch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Your thoughts, feelings and other feedback is appreciated as always. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> Feedback is appreciated. :)


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